


not your dancing clown

by CheapNightmares



Series: 70's Clown Craze [1]
Category: House of 1000 Corpses (Movies), The Devil's Rejects
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Cutter, M/M, Nanowrimo Project, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Charley, Slavery mention, Swearing, abuse mention, and NO dubious consent vibes, did I mention lots of swearing?, dogs are by bozojesus as well more of those pooches later, no mpreg in here, oc charley by rotttnapple on tumblr, original captain spaulding interpretation by bozojesus on tumblr, slow-burn, some semi-explict wet dreams going on hooo boy, started counting for NaNo at 10k words so the end goal for this is 60k
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapNightmares/pseuds/CheapNightmares
Summary: Captain Spaulding doesn't pay Uncle Sam his taxes and gets sentenced to five years of indentured servitude. Good ol' Cutter is less than happy about being on the auction block, and even less happy about who buys his time.





	1. October - Auction Day

**Author's Note:**

> Undecided year, but Cutter still has his museum in Ruggsville and isn't on the run from the cops.

Five fucking years. Five fucking years of servitude. And all for what, not paying the Man a couple hundred in fucking taxes? It was a whole lotta bullshit. Before it might've netted him a solid eight months in the clink, but not now with legal murder available. Cutter knew why they were doin' him in like this, an old Alpha with no mate, a goddamn war vet, he was a fucking hazard to their precious goddamn society.

Five years might've been a slap on the wrist to anyone else, at any other goddamn auction. Cutter knew about places like this, it's where they sent the dregs of society to die. The poor assholes sent here often got picked up by some slimy fucker looking for cheap labor he could work into the ground without consequence. It wasn't murder when an indentured servant died, it was a letter in the goddamn mail saying be a little more careful next time.

Charlie was supposed to come get his ass outta here, just like Cutter bailed him out years before (two-thousand-fucking-bucks, some ratty little shit wouldn't put his goddamn paddle down), now it was his dear ol' brother's turn to save his ass.

They were tugging on that steel collar clamped around his neck, tugging on him like a fucking dog. Cutter snarled, lip curling back, teeth baring in warning. He could walk out his goddamn self, even buck-naked as the day he was born. Dick swinging in the cold air and stinking of pissed-off alpha testosterone, he strolled out on the stage, squinting as he scanned the thin audience waiting for their next potential workhorse.

No Charlie.

Not a goddamn sign of him.

Fuck.

There was a handful of sketchy looking rats, the kind that dealt in fighters. They liked alphas like Cutter; no mate, big, and mean as hell. The slaves they bought would be sent to various underground rings to beat the shit out of each other till they got knocked down dead. A few more fat cats looking to stock their mines or fields, enjoying the fruits of cheap labor that couldn't run off into the hills when work got a little too hard. And a waif of a thing in an over-sized jacket and a cap, looking as out of place as a cat in a dog fight. Probably some common little beta, looking for a status symbol he could show off to his friends. Wrong fuck'n place for that, Junior, though some decent looking ones had gone out before him. Kid probably already bought his bounty and was just curious to see what the dregs of the lot looked like.

Cutter sneered at the crowd, planting his feet and staring down the lot of them.

The auctioneer, a greasy slab of a man with a raspy smoker's voice started rattling on about Cutter. Age, weight, status. A few of the rats perked up and Cutter glared at them, eyes nearly black in the stark lights of the auction stage. The waif looks up, briefly, and Cutter catches a glimpse of blue. Nah, he wasn't interested in an old dog like him.

Bidding started – at ten fuck'n bucks. Cutter would've snarled at the auctioneer if not for the warning prod of security's zap sticks at the low hollow of his back. They'd shove that stick right up his asshole and turn it up to maximum if he gave them too much shit. The auctioneer kept going, his raspy voice gone near velvety as he keeps rattling off the numbers that keep going up and up and up in five dollar increments. Cutter's eyes are fixed on the fight rats as he watches their paddles lower one by one, their faces turning from excitement to disgust and irritation. Who the fuck was still bidding on him? The price crawled up and up – five, six, seven hundred bucks. A thousand. Two. Three. Four.

The auctioneer banged his gavel. Someone bought his old ass for a cool ten grand. Cutter didn't clear half that in a goddamn month working his museum six days a goddamn week.

Before he could figure out who the fuck overpaid, outrageously, for him, he was dragged off the stage and shoved into a dingy room in the back to get his shots and implants. He caught a glimpse of the tracker before they embedded it – one high powered sonofabitch. It hurt, the sedatives they pumped into him until he was high up to his eyeballs hadn't quite kicked in yet. He barely noticed the stunner chip they put in, strong enough to take down a bull moose like him at a full run.

Outside there was the faint sound of arguing. Cutter was vaguely aware that he had been put in a scratchy jumpsuit that was at least two sizes too small, riding up the crack of his ass and hanging a few inches above his ankles. Squeezing his nuts like they were fuck'n grapes. The clown stared stupidly as the door was shoved open. That little waif from the audience, followed by a couple of hard-bastard cops. There was a stubborn look on the kid's face, turned up to look the taller men in the eye.

“I don't care. You've already pushed things I don't want done. I told you before, I don't want a stunner implanted.”

“Sir.” One of the cops. Cutter decided to call him Cornhole. The name made him giggle, a bit of drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Fuck, he was higher than the goddamn clouds. Cornhole was still talking.

“Sir, an alpha of this age, unmated, could be highly dangerous.” There was a muscle twitching in Cornhole's eyebrow. This amused Cutter even more. He was already cheering the kid on to piss Cornhole off even more. Get his whole face doing the hokey-pokey.

“I can be highly dangerous. Now give me the paperwork.” The little guy was really puffing himself up, holding out his hand with that pretty little mouth all twisted in a pout. Definitely a beta, Cutter decided, lil' beta try'n to act like an alpha with the big boys.

Cornhole's partner in crime – Dickhole, a man with caterpillar eyebrows and a prissy little mustache – spoke up now.

“Sir we highly recommend-”

“Give me the paperwork or you'll be hearing from my lawyer!” Hoo shit the little guy was really hissin' at 'em! Cornhole's tick was really going now, it looked like the fucker was trying to wink and failing at it. Cutter giggled louder and dribbled on his too-small jumpsuit. Dickhole was glaring at him. Cutter tried telling him to shave that shitty little mustache but all he managed was a wet grin. All teeth and hazed, stoned eyes like round cuts of onyx.

Cornhole seemed to be producing papers – his goddamn slave papers! - and the feisty little shit was signing them like somehow they did him wrong. It was kinda fucking funny. The clown let out a chuckling little _hehehe_. Dickhole's eyebrows had turned into a fuck'n unibrow.

Papers signed in duplicate and the lil' feller plucked them right out of Cornhole's hands, tucking them away in a neat little messenger bag Cutter hadn't noticed before. There was a little pang of regret that neither Cornhole nor Dickhole got beaned in the damn head with it, that would've made even Charlie's absence sting a little bit less. Even stoned out of his gourd his brother not showing up, not even fucking trying, made something hard and sharp twist inside Cutter's chest.

Papers safely stowed his feisty new owner was finally looking at him, look'n up with those damned big blue Bambi eyes.

“Come with me, please.” That pouty twist had smoothed out of his mouth, but now he was turning away and leaving back out the door he came. Cutter found himself ambling after him, grinning from ear to ear like he just won the sonofabitch'n lottery.

Stoned off his gourd, no doubt.

Cutter followed his new buyer – if this lil' twerp thought he was going to be hearing Master or My Fucking Lord he had another thing coming – out to a big black sedan with the door being held open by what had to be the most uptight sonofabitch Cutter had ever seen. He was leering at the guy like a lunatic born straight from hell, big teeth pushed right up in his face, and the fucker didn't even blink. Well fuck him very much then. Cutter got into the car, his jumpsuit riding up his asscrack worse than ever and crushing his nuts and flopped down in the seat like it was a hundred dollar truck instead of a car that probably cost more than Cutter made in his lifetime.

Cutter stretched out his legs, grunted, and scratched at his nuts. No talk'n happened right off so he flopped his head back against the seat – real leather, sonofabitch! - and closed his eyes. Within a minute his jaw was hanging open, loud, boisterous snores filling that fancy car.


	2. October - Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cutter gets his first look at how the 1% of society lives. He hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cutter drowns a really good steak in a whole lotta gravy. Don't judge him.

“...sir? Sir excuse me...”

Cutter woke with a start, brow knitting in anger as he was yanked out of a real winner of a dream. A whole mess of sweet, beautiful asses waitin' to be plowed and seeded like fertile fuckin' fields. He'd been just about to take his cock out when that whispering, practically in his goddamn ear! Woke him the fuck up.

“The FUCK ya WANT!” A raspy, growling bark. That sneer is back, lips curling over over those big mean teeth. His head is starting to ache, feeling like it's been stuffed with old straw and cotton. He turns his gaze to his left, beholds that Orphan Andy that bought him, damn near cowering against the door.

Good. Motherfucker.

“We've arrived at my apartment.” The twerp's voice is low, soft. Hard to believe he was going to toe-to-toe with Cornhole and his sidekick, Dickhole, not all that long ago. Or not all that long ago Cutter thought. He grunted, turning away to peer out the window. The light had gone from bright dawn to the deeper color of dusk. He didn't recognize where the fuck they were, in front of some big ass building he didn't know. The kinda place that had a doorman waiting for every fancy asshole that came prancing through, rain or shine. Cutter knew get it outta the lil' feller easy enough, get it the fuck out and figure just how the fuck he was going to get outta the whole fuck'n mess. First thing he'd do when he got back home was wring Charlie's little chicken-fuck neck. There was something else, tickling at the back of his mind, being drowned under the beginning of a real thumper of a hangover.

The door was opened and Cutter gave an angry little growl at that uppity fuck that did it. Same fucker as before, wasn't it? He was pretty sure it was. His new owner came out after him, not even a glance spared for the robot that drove his car.

“Follow me, please.” It's all he said and he was gone again, the doorman doing his goddamn job of making sure no one who lived in this hoity-toity fuck'n place had to lift a finger for their own damn selves. Cutter stared at the driver for a moment before following. Wasn't like he had the option to stay behind or nothin'.

The doorman was looking at him like he might have rabies. Just the way Cutter liked it.

The next argument came at the elevator.

“I ain't goin' in no fuckn' tiny box.” Cutter was snarling, nostrils flaring, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The little fuck was just looking up at him with those goddamn eyes of his – eyes like a warm spring sky, just after a storm when the colors are intensified trifold – calm as anything. Cutter found himself thinking he must be on some kinda hell of a tranquilizer.

“It's either the elevator or the stairs.” Comes the reply. So soft Cutter has a hard time not snatching _his_ little chicken-fuck throat and wringing it, imagining it was Charlie's instead.

“Then we'll take the fucking stairs!” Cutter's voice boomed through the lobby, all marble floors and mahogany. There was a fuckin' chandelier hanging in the middle of it for christsake! It had gone deathly silent. And empty.

“It's twenty stories.”

Cutter's eyes nearly bug out of his head. Rage overtakes him like a red cloud, then subsides again.

“Then we'll take the FUCK'N elevator.” He's growling, hissing, turning and stabbing at the stupid button like it had wronged him. The doors slid open so smooth and silent it only served to enrange him further. He storms in, staring as the kid follows. Inserts a key – a fucking KEY! - and presses the button at the very top marked PENTHOUSE.

Cutter stared at the door in absolute silence. Watching it slide shut, a faint ding! Announcing the start of their trip all the way to the tippy-top. Cutter thought he was going to get more beautiful silence, allowed to stew in his anger and hangover headache in peace. He was wrong.

“My name is Charley.”

Cutter's head turns so slow, the creaking of the cords in his neck was almost audible. He looked feral. His beard had gone rampant during his time trapped in a cell, eyes bloodshot, dark and over-wide. His lips were pulled back from his spit-slicked teeth. Nostrils flaring slowly with every slow breath he took. Standing there in that itchy-fucking-too-small jumpsuit, the mix of smells in the elevator – alphas, betas, omegas, 'cause of course all those rich ass alpha fucks had a dainty little omega wife – making his head hurt all the worse. Now this little shit was talking.

So Charlie had bailed him out. Just the wrong fucking one.

“Charley with a Y, Charley Harris I-”

“Captain Spaulding.” Cutter overrode him. Leaning in closer. Looming over the little bastard – no, 'scuse him, Charley-With-A-Fucking-Y.

“Oh. Your paperwork said your name was John-”

“_Captain_. _Spaulding._” Cutter leans in closer, enunciating very carefully, misting him with a fine spray of spittle. Charley (with a Y) nearly bending over backwards now, staring up at him.

“Oh.”

Cutter straightens up again, thinking that was the end of it.

“It's nice to meet you-”

The old clown lets out a bull-like sound, a mix between a grunt and a snarl, and at last the elevator falls into blessed fucking silence.

At least 'till the fucking thing dings again and the doors slide open far too smoothly. Of course the doors opened right on the goddamn apartment. Cutter stomped out of the elevator, really stomped, far harder than necessary and stood there. Huge, hulking, seething.

The far wall was dominated by glass, floor to ceiling and overlooking the rest of the city. A few potted plants stood at attention there, soaking in what little light was left of the day. What Cutter would've called a living room to the left. There was a goddamn fireplace surrounded by expensive furniture, the kind you could really sink into after a long day. Not that Charley ever had a long day in his goddamn life, Cutter didn't think. Shelves filled with books and a bar – the old clown took particular note of that little detail – topped with crystal decanters filled with fine amber liquors.

To his right stood the kitchen, one of them half-walls with bar stools separating it from the rest of this open-fuck'n floor plan. A lil' sort of hallway ran off the side of the kitchen, maybe the only normal thing about the whole place. Cutter stood there huffing, glaring at it all. Hatin' it all this fancy shit. Ain't no man needed this amount of goddamn space, not when you could fit five goddamn families in it and still have enough room not to knock each other over.

Then the smell hit him all at once, a slap in the face, the cherry on top of what had been a piss poor week and a fucking shit of a day. Cutter didn't notice Charley had come in behind him, removing hat and coat and gloves, stepping out of boots, dressing down as they said. No, Cutter didn't notice shit. His eyes had fluttered shut, taking in deep, slow breaths. Scenting the place. It was instinctual, particular to the alpha sex. Some betas did it, to a lesser extent, more of a curiosity than a territorial interest.

Cutter had only smelled an omega once before, and that had been some years ago. A fancy lady jus' dripping with jewels and fur had come in, looked around his shop – her eyes had been green, he remembered, green as a fine fuck'n emeralds – made a soft little sound and turned right 'round again. Her alpha had stayed to browse and piss him off a little but he never did forget the smell of her. Sweet like roses and morning dew, mixed with a far more masculine musk reminiscent of coffee and tobacco.

This was different. It made him think of vanilla and honey, ripe peaches in the sun. Cocaine might've killed half his sniffer off but goddamn if the place wasn't saturated in it, that warm-sweet smell in every corner of the goddamn room. Wasn't no hint of spice here, none of the earthy smells that would lend a nod to another alpha in the midst. Naw, this was a dyed-in-the-wool omega smell, and not one hanging on the arm of another cock-sure alpha. Cutter just knew it.

But all the omegas around were of the female persuasion, weren't they? Must be a girlfriend lurking around someplace. Rich bastard like this, even if he was just a common lil' beta, could afford to have an omega girlfriend with a gold-plated pussy.

Cutter opened his eyes again and there the little shit himself was. Warm grey slacks – fuckin' slacks, for christsake – and a soft, dark blue sweater that brought out the color of those goddamn eyes. His hair was a shade of golden blond, tousled now from being hidden under that ugly cap. He wasn't doin' nothing but standing there, arms crossed light over his chest, and staring at him like he was some kinda sideshow freak.

“See somethin' ya like?” Cutter growled at him. His headache was a lil' better, but it didn't improve his mood any. The implants were beginning to ache with the effects of the shots wearing off ever more rapidly.

“You can stay in the guest room. There's a bathroom and I keep spare clothes in the wardrobe. There might be something that fits you.” Charley replied, turning away to go down the hall, bare feet near silent on the wood floors and fancy carpets that laid around the place. Cutter followed, if only for the chance to get this fucking onsie out of his crack. He didn't bother taking off the paper slippers he'd been given at the auction, he didn't give a shit if the pretty boy's fancy rugs got a lil' dirt on them.

Cutter had been expecting some dingy little closet with a cot in it, instead what opened up was a light-soaked room he would've sworn was bigger than his entire fucking trailer. Hell, the bed wouldn't've fit in his trailer, one of those stupid-big four poster deals he saw sometimes in porno mags. That omega smell wasn't soaked in here, clean linen dominated instead. Charley was inside, opening what was apparently 'spose to be a wardrobe, displaying the most boring goddamn array Cutter had ever seen. White shirts, black paints. Fuck your mother.

“Bathroom's that way. I'll give you a tour of the rest of the place later.” Charley's low voice is beginning to piss Cutter off, old ears just barely catching what had been said. The little shit is about to slide past him when Cutter's big, calloused paw comes down on his shoulder. He feels the kid tense, try to twist again. Cutter's grip tightens and he relents, the old clown's dark eyes locking onto blue ones again. Staring him down.

“What about yer girlfriend?” Cutter asks with sneer. Last thing he needed was some fancy hussy throwing a fit because she didn't like what her man brought home. It's the confusion that shadows Charley's face that gives Cutter a pause.

“A girl- I don't have a girlfriend.” Kid sounds honest, Cutter doesn't trust it.

“Bullshit you don't.” Growling again, giving the kid's shoulder a hard little shake. He can feel the fine bones under his fingers, thinks about how easy it would be to crush them.

“I don't.” Charley's more insistent now, expression darkening into that go-to-hell pout he was giving Cornhole and his ever present companion, Dickhole, earlier. “I live alone.”

“BuuuuuullllSHIT!” Cutter barks, feeling a dark sort of satisfaction when junior flinches. Show him you can't bullshit a bullshitter or tame a man like Captain Cutter Spaulding with a few slips of paper and a fucking tracker. “I can smell her. Place stinks of it.”

Charley's squirming under his grip, looking away from him. Avoiding those hard, dark eyes. He's biting at his lip, dragging his teeth over the soft skin.

“I don't have a girlfriend.” Charley repeats, he looks up at Cutter again. It takes some determination, that much is clear. Stubborn little shit.

“Quit fuckin' lying-”

“I'm the omega.” Charley overrides him and Cutter's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “It's me. I don't have a girlfriend. I never have.”

The rusty old gears in Cutter's head begin to turn over, reluctant. He remembered Eve being worried about Baby maybe being an omega, purdy as she was, but Baby was just as alpha as her daddy and it showed every damn day. Omega girls always ended up getting sent off to fancy schools where they learned how to talk and walk so they could be married off to rich fucks who lived in places like this. But omega boys? Nah that just wasn't-

“We're very rare.” Charley's still holding eye contact with him. “We're infertile. Sterile. We can't produce children and alphas don't want us. Most of the boys like me end up in brothels or kill themselves. No alpha wants to bond with a useless omega. Experiencing heats without a bond for years on end leads to severe depression. Loneliness. We're not built to be alone.”

Cutter's staring, no, he's outright gawking. That soft-sweet smell is filling nose again. His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. Cutter was sure he couldn't muster an erection right now if his life depended on it. It gave him a bit of a kick in the ass, at least, snapping him out of this strange fucking shock.

“If you think I'm going to be some kinda-”

“I did not purchase you as a sex slave. Excuse me.”

And the kid was gone, slipped right out from under his hand. Cutter felt his anger return almost at once. He slammed the door shut.

Well,  _ shit _ .

Cutter didn't know how they managed to cram his fat ass into the goddamn suit, but is sure as shit wasn't comin' off the same way it went on. The zipper was stuck halfway down now, caught on a tuft of belly hair. Cutter stood there, staring at it, a vein pulsing in his temple. His headache was back alright, and with full force.

The big clown threw his head back and let out a guttural “_YAAAAAUUUGGGHHHH!_” The cords of his neck stood out, face suffusing with blood. Under the sound was a faint ripping as the zipper gave way, taking a little tuft of fur with it. The seams along the shoulders popped, cheap fabric and shitty stitching no match for him. Within a few minutes, Cutter was as naked as he had been on the auction block and the jumpsuit was laying in shredded tatters on the floor. Cutter spit on it and stalked off to the door Charley had pointed out, ripping it out and staring at what had to be the nicest goddamned bathroom he had ever seen. Everything sparkled, glittered, looking expensive as all shit. There wasn't a single tit plastered on the wall, even.

Cutter caught a glance of himself in the mirror – bags under his eyes, beard stickin' out every which way, black prison dirt smeared on his bald plate. Lookin' like he aged ten years in an hour. Cutter grunted to himself and turned to the shower, figuring after a minute of further cursing that the glass door didn't slide open, but swung out.

“Who in the FUCK'N WORLD.” Cutter spat, staring at no less than five goddamn shower heads pointing every which way. Who the fuck needed more than one? What was this, some kinda family fuckin' wash stall? All he wanted to do was wash the sour stink of prison off his skin, not get power washed from too many goddamn angles. Water pressure was probably shit too.

Cutter turned the tap on to hot.

The water pressure wasn't shit at all.

He swore at it.

Cutter intended on staying in 'till the water ran cold, which it seemed to be refusing to do. He started fuck'n around with the stupid goddamn heads and found a pulsating jet to beat against his lower back. Cutter let out a long, heavy groan, pressing his folded arm against the tiled wall, resting his head against it and letting the water work his tired old back. He stayed in there till he was shriveled up like a prune, finding more things to hate while he was at it. The soap didn't have that faintly greasy, chemical smell he was used to and left his skin feeling soft.

He finally shut off the tap and stepped out, standing on a rug that had no right to feel as soft and fluffy under his rough feet as it did. Cutter spied a bathrobe hanging on a hook and snatched it off, yanking it on, trying to ignore how nice THAT felt too. Sonofagoddamnbitch. Fuckin' rich folks and their fuckin' fancy shit.

Cutter stomped back out to the bedroom and stopped.

Gone was the ripped and shredded jumpsuit from the floor. A cart with a tray, covered in one of them fancy domed lids he saw in movies had taken its place. A neatly folded stack of clothes was on the bed, all the way down to the socks and undies. What'd this asshole think, he was some kinda doll to be dressed up on a whim? He had another thing comin' if he was thinkin' THAT shit was gonna fly. Grumbling and gruffing about the assumptions of rich folks he plodded over to the fancy-fucker tray, he yanked the domed lid off and tossed it in a corner. The smells that came wafting up made his mouth water immediately, eyes going big as saucers.

Steak an' taters, a whole mess o' collard greens on the side. There was another little container, the lid of that getting tossed into the corner too. A frosty beer came outta that. Cutter whistled, low, looking at the bounty. Compared to the prison slop he'd gotten forced down his gullet, this was some five star shit.

Cutter popped the cap off the beer with teeth, dragging the cart over to the bed and flopping down to tuck in. He swallowed half the beer in one go, eyeing the platter of food again. There was some fussy lil' container off to the side he hadn't noticed before, pulling the lid off that sum'bitch revealed gravy. Gravy!

“Well bend me over an' call me daddy!” Cutter boomed, gleeful as he drowned his meat and taters in the rich brown gravy. He hamfisted his knife and fork, setting in on it like a starved man. The meat was goin' to be tough, 'course it was, for all this fancy shit there was no way in goddamn hell his buyer was going to be pick'n up anything but the cheapest shit for his pet fuck'n clown. Cutter hacked a piece off, sloping up more gravy before stuffing the chunk of meat in his mouth.

“Son of a whore.” Cutter moaned, eyes closing as he chewed slowly, savoring the steak. It wasn't tough at all, it was buttery and rich, melting in his mouth. In a minute his cheeks were stuffed, taters and greens and steak and gravy. It didn't take long before the plate was all but licked clean, the beer empty and his belly full.

Cutter pushed the cart away and heaved himself up on the bed, flopping back. Like floppin' into a fuck'n cloud, Jesus H Fuck'n Christ on a jumped up pony. His eyes closed and within minutes he was snoring again, still wearing nothing but his robe, now decorated with a few plops of gravy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every kudo makes Cutter hate something expensive slightly less than before.


	3. October - Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have breakfast, Cutter turns the annoyance level up to maximum, and they learn a little more about each other.

“Mr. Spaulding?”

A grunt. A snort.

“Mr. Spaulding, breakfast is ready.”

Cutter opened his eyes, brow knitting into a scowl. Every GODDAMN time he was getting to the best part of the dream, balls deep up in a cute thing and about to cream, this lil' bastard had to come and wake him up. Cutter lifted his head to glare at the shit. Charley was dressed in another soft-looking sweater and warm grey slacks. And he was looking everywhere that wasn't Cutter.

The clown lifted his head a little further and looked down. His legs were flopped apart, robe split open down the middle. His thick cock was staring back at him, laying long and heavy and stiff up his belly. Cutter's scowl turned into a smirk. Got more than he bargained for, did he?

“Alright.” Cutter grunts, sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed, scratching loudly at balls. That sweet honey scent was lingering again, comin' from Mr. Can't-Look-At-A-Cock over here no doubt. The briefest thought passed though Cutter's mind, if Charley's pale skin would taste as sweet as he smelled. It made his cock throb. Fuck'n hormones. Cutter grumbled, throwing up his defenses all over again. “Gimme a minute.”

“Sure.” And with that Charley was gone, hurrying out of the room and taking that soft, sweet smell with him. Good fuck'n riddance.

Cutter decided to spank the monkey in the shower, trying out that pulsing jet one more time before he took a piss and left the steamy bathroom feeling satisfied. He got dressed, hating how smooth the clothes felt, nearly silky between his rough and calloused fingers. Charley wasn't getting another free peep show on his watch. Cutter wasn't a fuck'n slave to nobody, didn't matter how fancy it was all dressed up, that's all those goddamn auctions were. Slave sales, takin' advantage of the poor.

Ambling out the smell of pancakes and bacon – fuck him sideways there was fucking BACON – overrode Charley's softer scent. The main room was sun drenched, but his headache had gone away sometime in the night. The glorious, roar'n orgasm he unleashed in the shower probably helped out a bit too. Cutter didn't mind it as much as he was letting on, keeping his stony poker face as he trudged over to the little table near the window and dropped his ass into a chair. There was a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, a small mountain of bacon. A jug of orange juice sitting there, beads of moisture slowly dripping down the sparkling glass surface. A thermos of coffee, steaming and rich. Even the syrup had its own cutesy little glass bottle, a deep amber color refracting the light. Cutter squinted at it, didn't look like no Aunt Jemima he'd ever seen. Cutter snorted derisively and started loading up his plate with the flapjacks and crispy bacon before . Charley was at the other end of the small table, sipping a glass of juice and looking out the window. After a moment the kid looked back to his plate, picking at a flapjack and a piece of bacon. Cutter wondered just what the fuck his problem was. Buyer's remorse? Still think'n about his cock? He didn't give a fuck all either way.

Cutter stared him down across the table, ham fisting his knife and fork again. Waiting for somethin'. Like a goddamn explanation.

“Why the fuck ya'd buy me?” Cutter's voice was gruff, nearly a growl. Charley had been sipping at his juice again and Cutter felt a dark satisfaction when he choked on it, coughing and sputtering, dragging a linen napkin off the table to keep from spraying spit all over his food.

“Ya don't want me for fuck'n so what's your interest? You wanna watch the clown dance fer ya? You get some kinda kick outta all that shit?”

“No.” Charley clears his throat. He isn't rising to the bait, not yet at least. Cutter leans forward, he'll get his goddamn answer one way or the other.

“You some kinda pervert? Like stare'n at my cock in the mornin', do ya?” His voice is a growl, rough and low. Charley could feel the vibration of it from across the table. His eyes narrowed. The clown kept pressing.

“You wanna dress me up? Hoohoohoo watch Capt'in Spauldin' do the 'lectric fuckin' slide! Gonna make me lick your rich boy boots, polish 'em real good fer ya? Put me on a leash an' fuckin' collar-”

“I'M LONELY, OKAY!? I HATE HOW QUIET IT IS!” Charley's sudden shout makes Cutter stop, if only for a moment. The big man had been rising from his seat, hands planted on the table, leaning over and really pushin', pushin' the little bastard.

“Well HE-EL-LLOOO!” Cutter cries, throwing his hands in the air with dramatic effect, “I'm lonely to but you don't me buyin' fuckin'-” Cutter stops, the anger clearing from this dark eyes for just a moment. He sat down again, heavy enough to make that rich-boy chair creek under his heavy ass. Thinkin' 'bout those ladies, sometimes those boys, he picked up from in front of the shitty motels, from under the yellow gas station lights. Street corners. Not just payin' 'em for sex, sometimes just payin' them to come sit with him at the dinner table, have a fuck'n conversation or what amounted to it. Jesus fucking christ-

“You could have ended up in a place a whole lot worse than this.” Charley hisses at him like some nasty little snake and Cutter's eyes go flat again. Flat and dangerous, the emotion draining from his face like water down a drain.

“Am I 'spose to be fucking GRATEFUL for this shit? You gotta be some kinda fuck'n pervert, all you rich fuck'n folks are nothin' but a buncha fuck'n twisted fucks waitin' for some poooor lil' country bumpkin t'come along an'-”

“No. But it's true.” Charley interrupts him. Cutter hates getting interrupted and here's this little shit, just cuttin' him off like it ain't nothin'. “You could have ended up in the fighting pits. Or the mines. I don't expect gratitude but it's true and you know it is.”

Cutter looks him up and down. Lil' shit is holding his fork in a white-knuckled grip, like he's gonna jump across the table and shove it into somethin' soft. Cutter locks his gaze with Charley's, daring him to come over and give it a try. C'mon pretty boy, come right on over and give it a chance. But Charley doesn't, his grip relaxes and he starts eating his breakfast again. Pokin' at it, pushing his flapjack farther away from his bacon and vice-versa, like he doesn't want them to even think about touching each other.

“I've been to the high status auctions.” Charley begins talking again, his voice low and tense. “I didn't like them.” Not mentioning why he didn't like them, how he hated the looks they gave him. Like he should be the one up there, naked and blushing. He didn't like how the thoroughbred alphas imagined what he might be like, prostrate on the ground, collared and bound. His eyes are locked on his plate now. He hopes Spaulding will drop the whole thing and just go back to his pancakes.

“I was going to give up. Then you came out. Now we are here, so eat your bacon.” There's a moment of silence. Charley can feel Cutter's eyes on him, his gaze burning. He doesn't look up. Doing his best to ignore him. Murder by indentured servants was a one-way trip to a lifetime sentence at the work farms, it seemed to prevent most of them from trying to get out of their sentence. Surely Mr. Spaulding knew it as well as anyone.

“You felt like you fuckin' saved me.” Cutter isn't standing but his hands are gripping either side of the table, white knuckled. His voice is sharp, clear and venomous. “Like you fuckin' rescued me.”

“No.” Charley's reply comes with an irritated sigh, his fork clinking hard back down onto his plate as he looks up. That twist is back in that pretty little mouth of his, the storm back in those spring-time eyes of his. He drums his fingers on the polished surface of the table for a moment, stops.

“When I saw you come out.” Charley starts, stops again. Cutter's dark eyes narrow but he lets him talk. “I liked that you looked like you wouldn't take shit from anybody. That you didn't look like a kiss ass.” Another one of those low exhales, his gaze turns out the window for a moment before it returns to Cutter.

“I didn't want somebody living with me that was going to grovel at my feet. I wanted someone real.”

“Oh so you picked ME!” Cutter leers at him with a savage grin, all teeth and no sunshine. “Oh no no no! No SIR! You picked the sonofabitch who was gonna give ya nothin' but hell day in and day out!” A harsh bark of a laugh.

“You get off on shit like this? Havin' someone to argue with all the damn time? That get your panties all wet?”

“No! Jesus christ!” Charley looks shocked, maybe even a little offended. Cutter liked that. Makin' the pretty rich boy squirm. Bet nobody ever talked like this to him ever before. These silver-spoon types were all the fuckin' same.

“No? That ain't it? Well give ol' Daddy Spaulding a goddamn hint, sport. Are you fucking annoying?” Cutter raises a hand, leveling one of those blunt, heavy fingers at him in a hard point. “Are you so goddamn fuckin' obnoxious that no one can stand to even see your sorry little ass? Is that it? Are you so bitch-fucking ay-noy-ing that a dead cat would come right the fuck back to life just to get away from you? Or is it that you're just-”

“I'M A FUCKING REJECT, OKAY?!” Charley doesn't shout at him, oh no, he screams at him, fists coming down on that thick wood so hard even the juice rattles. “You know what I fucking am? I'm the lowest goddamn caste of fucking society! Those rich fucks scoff and turn their noses up at me because they think I earned my fortune on my fucking back because all you fucking alphas think that boys like me are good for is DISPOSABLE FUCK!”

Cutter's silent now and not for the shock of it. He's silent and he's staring at this kid, how that pretty mouth is pulled back in a furious, savage snarl. The bright apples of anger in his cheeks. Sizing this little thing up. He wasn't lying, Cutter had no ideas about that, no he wasn't lying one bit. The disdain he had for the members of his own goddamn class was obvious, maybe even went just as deep as Cutter's himself. How they all made assumptions about you, how you got what it was you had; based on how you talked or walked, how you dressed. He never had one of them look down on him for what he was – they didn't dare look down on a big brute of an alpha like Captain Cutter Spaulding, no sir, but the hurt and fury in Charley's eyes was clear as the day coming in through those stupid big windows of his.

And the desperation. I wanted someone REAL.

Cutter grunted, eyes dropping to his plate then to that goddamn fancy thing of syrup. He didn't know what the fuck was wrong with just squeezing syrup out of the bottle but he wasn't about to bring that up right now either.

“I've worked hard for every single thing I have.” Charley's voice is low and hard but Cutter can hear him just fine, along with the scrape of his breakfast plate being shoved away and the thunk of the coffee being dropped closer. He looks up and Charley's putting sugar in a cup full of black, stirring it in like it owed him money and wronged him in the process.

“I studied at the library every chance I got. I did my courses through the mail because oh _ sorry _ , we have a _ policy _ against _ your kind _. I paid for it doing every shit-dirty job I could find that would take me. I didn't have the scholarships or fancy colleges or daddy's money to pave a yellow brick road for me. I did it all my damn self.” Charley stops talking for a moment and Cutter looks up, syrup poised to dump it's sugary goodness all over his meal. Charley locks eyes on him, like he's really going to come across the table and go for blood.

“So ex-cuse me for wanting someone I could maybe talk to.”

“And ex-cuse ME for assumin' the worst from some pretty lil' white rich boy! Believe it or not, the good ones I've met are few and far between!” Cutter shoots back a rhetoric, probably the closest thing to an apology he's managed in god-knows how long. It seems to relax Charley just a little bit more, instead of attacking his coffee with a spoon he's actually drinking it. Scowling a bit, but he ain't on a goddamn rampage anymore by the looks of it.

“They're all shit.” Charley's voice is sullen, he's glaring out the window again as he sips coffee that looks a few degrees too hot to be drinking. Cutter had to leave his Mr. Coffee on at home if he wanted a hot cup, and then he had to drink it fast before it burned right to hell.

“If I wanted someone to fuck, or someone to grovel, all I have to do is pick up the phone and call an escort service. I wouldn't have to go to an auction and then listen to those stupid pigs mansplain everything to me like I'm an idiot.”

Stupid pigs. Cutter wanted to chuckle but he managed, barely, to suppress the urge to do so, instead focusing on drowning his bacon and flapjacks in maple syrup. This sure as hell wasn't the cheap stuff that came in a plastic bottle the shape of a lady, oh no. This was rich boy syrup, fancy as hell. Charley's voice had taken on a more mocking tone now, doing an awful good impression of Cornhole.

“You need to chemically castrate him. He'll kill you if you don't. He's a dangerous man. You wouldn't adopt a rabid dog, would you?” Charley scoffs, slurping coffee. “Fuck you. I can be just as dangerous. My sex doesn't dictate who's ass I can and cannot kick.”

“You think you could take me down?” Cutter's speared a piece of sugar drenched bacon with his fork and now it's slowly disappearing into his mouth. There's an amused little grin slanting the corner of his mouth now.

“You wanna find out?” Comes the sassy little reply and and Cutter can't help the hehehe that bubbles up from his chest. He's near waiting for Charley to go on another tear, certainly got enough wildfire in him to do it, but it doesn't happen. Small miracles and all that.

“I can respect that.” Cutter drawled, chewing slowly. “And for the record, mean dogs are mean 'cause someone taught them t'be mean, raised 'em wrong.” He's selecting another bit of bacon with his fork, dragging it through the thick syrup and spearing a bit of flapjack along with it.

“Now if they have rabies...then no, y'can't do nothin' about that. Best thing you can do it put 'em down. There ain't no getting 'em outta that.” Cutter stuffs the forkful in his mouth, talking around his food. “Me? I'm just mean.”

“I've noticed.” Comes Charley's dry response. He finishes off his cup and pours another, dumping more sugar in it. Cutter finds himself silently questioning just how much caffeine and sweets such a little feller could take before he was pinging off every wall in the place.

“Glad to see your eyes an' ears are workin' kid, I ain't been exactly subtle.” Cutter digs in for another forkful. This was a whole lot better than stale Cheerios and milk going on the verge of sour.

“Better than yours.” Charley leans back in his seat, sipping his fresh up. Cutter reaches forward and snags the thermos, filling his own mug with straight black. No sugar for him. Partially 'cause he wanted coffee, partially before Charley drank so much he was seeing sounds and tasting colors.

“Well, bein' surrounded by constant gunfire an' shells goin' off will do that to you.” Cutter grunted, taking a good swallow of his coffee before peering into the cup. This sure as hell wasn't Folgers.

“Your paperwork said you were in the war. They suggested you might have nightmares and try to strangle me to death in the middle of the night.” Charley's studying Cutter from over the rim of his coffee mug. The man looked a little better than he did yesterday, the effects of a good meal and a solid night's sleep seemed to have the desired outcome.

“Yeah? Might not be wrong. Maybe you outta put a lock on my door.” Cutter's returned to hunching over his plate, sloping up syrup with bacon and fluffy flapjacks. The blueberries in them were damn good, not that he'd admit to it. He shoveled a couple more on his plate, emptying a good portion of the bacon while he was at it. Slavery or not, he wasn't about to turn down a full belly, especially not one that tasted this good.

“You'd snap it off just to prove that you could.” Charley replies and Cutter gives a soft snort. Yeah, he'd do just that, no doubt about it. He wasn't about to be locked in anywhere, no matter how nice the trappings were is was still too much like a jail cell.

“I do have one on mine.” Charley continues, “I'd ask that you respect it while it's locked.”

Cutter raises an eyebrow at that, “I ain't some kinda pervert. 'Less the other person's into it.”

“I don't care if you walked in on me jacking it. I lock it during my cycles. It's easier when I feel safe. A good lock helps me achieve that feeling.”

Cutter grunted, adding more syrup to his plate. “Safe from me?”

“Safe from everyone. I had it installed long before you came along.” There's something in Charley's voice that makes Cutter look up, a faintly questioning look in his eye. But the kid doesn't expand on just what that tone means, he goes right in another direction, straightening up, setting his mug on the table in front of him.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Charley was so goddamn polite Cutter hardly believed he heard the word 'fuck' come out of his mouth just a few minutes ago.

“Do I gotta choice?” Cutter swallows a mouthful, chases it with coffee and burps.

“Yes.” Charley folds his hands on the table, then pulls them down into his lap. Fidgeting a bit. “Your, uhm. Your...you....you know...your thing?”

“My what?” Cutter's got another bit of bacon – in his fingers, this time, making them all sticky. “You askin' about my dick? How I wash my nuts? My big ol' ass?”

“No – no, no no.” Charley clears his throat with a soft, 'excuse me'. Cutter likes the fact that there's a lil' pink flush rising in those pert cheeks of his. “None of that. Your. Ah. Your...rut? How long does that...last?”

“Mmmm.” Cutter props an elbow on the table, sucking maple syrup off his fingers. “We-e-eelll. Stuff gets goin' around the times the bears do it. Sometime after my birthday or whereabouts. 'Bout the time spring's ending, gets reeeaaaalll heavy at the start of summer. Stops about July.” Cutter swipes up more syrup off his plate to lick off the callused pad of his thumb.  
“Good luck to ya, dealin' with my horny, crazy ass for three months outta the year.”

“It lasts that long?” Charley looks dismayed. He had read about alpha biology, he wasn't nearly so well versed in it as his own but he knew a little bit about it. Some of them had a couple a year, some only started when there was an omega in heat. But three months out of the year? Dear _ christ _.

“Yuuup. Lucky me, right?” Cutter popped the button on his pants – some kinda fussy fuck material, he didn't know what. Certainly not what he was used to wearing. “Three fuckin' months of wantin' to rip an' shove my dick into everything. It's all kinds of fun.”

“Well I'm sure.” Charley smooths down the front of his shirt, moving to stand and clear away the breakfast dishes. “I'm sure we can find. Something. To occupy you during your. Yearly experiences.”

“Uh huh. Oh, before ya go.” Cutter gives him one of those big old classic grins of him. “You gotta phone I can use?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Kudo = 1 Interrupted Wet Dream


	4. October - Phone Calls & Gemstones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cutter makes a few phone calls and discovers what pheromones are all about. Charley's delighted to share his profession and is terrible at lying. The boys go shopping for the first time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More NSFW than previous chapters - Cutter is Cutter, talking about his dick.

The phone turned out to be just over in the living room, discreetly tucked away in the corner like Charley didn't want it to have any kinda presence. Like maybe he was a lil' afraid of the damn thing ringing. The kid was puttin' things away and running water in the sink now. Cutter had made no offer to help. He wasn't no goddamn maid.

The phone frustrated him until Charley spoke up from the kitchen – Cutter could see him there, that lil' half-wall keeping things all open to everything else – that he needed to dial 1 before the number if he was calling long distance.

_ “ _Thanks for the fuck'n information.” Cutter snapped. He only got a faint shrug in reply, the kid focused on doing his washing and stacking the clean plates in the rack beside the sink. Cutter had almost expected some kinda fancy auto-drying system, but it looked like even the rich had to stoop to the level of peasants when it came to doin' up the dishes.

Cutter dialed goddamn one and then the number for the payphone sittin' outside his shop. Listening to it ring and ring and ring. Hanging up, tryin' again, hanging up, tryn' again. Cutter was about to give up and try Stucky at home when the phone on the other side finally got picked up.

It was Baby, drawling out a long, “_ yelllloooowww? _ This better be fucking good, this line is reserved, ya hear me?”

Cutter didn't respond right away instead stretching the phone cord to his limits after a cursory glance told him Charley was no longer in the kitchen. There was a door ajar not far down the hall, close to what he could call 'his room'. No idea what the kid was doing in there, but he didn't really fuckin' care either. On the phone Baby was getting increasingly irate, her tone growing more dangerous by the minute.

_ “ _Baby, hon. It's me, it's daddy.”

_ “ _Daddy?! Holy shit why didn't you say somethin'! When are you and Uncle Charlie getting back? You were supposed to be home days ago.”

_ “ _I know, I know, listen, Baby, Uncle Charlie didn't come and bail me out.”

_ “ _THAT RAT TAILED COCK-SUCKING-” Baby's scream is so immediate and ferocious Cutter has to hold the phone away from his ear to keep from bursting his damn eardrum, wincing as the sounds of his phone booth getting the bullshit kicked out of it coming loud and clear through the phone. There was no use in trying to talk Vera-Ellen down, that was like throw'n water on a grease fire. Best to let it jus' burn out, lest you get yourself caught a'fire.

And sure enough, her tirade ended, Baby coming back to the phone sounding pissed enough to chew up nails and spit out bullets.

_ “ _Where are ya daddy? We'll come and get you, me an' Otis and momma-”

_ “ _No, no no no honey I don't want you doin' anything like that and getting the cops on your tail.” Cutter overrode her quickly, alarm raising hard in his chest. “I already got half'a plan on how to get my ass outta here, don't you worry about that. Your ol' papa can handle himself.”

_ “ _Where are you? Are you still in jail? I thought you were going up on one of those auctions.” Cutter can hear the worry in her voice and it makes his heart ache. He misses her, misses all of them. He wants to be home again, with his museum and his dogs and his family.

_ “ _I went up, angel. Got picked up for ten grand. Uncle Charlie.” Cutter closes his eyes, pushing a sigh out of his nose. “Even if Uncle Charlie had showed, he wouldn't've had that kinda cash on him.”

Or he would've lied about not having it.

_ “ _Well who the fuck got you?!” Baby cries, worry going twofold, crashing against his ear. Cutter could hear the internal struggle going on in his lil' angel, she was thinking the worst, without a doubt, tryin' to respect his wishes for her to stay put and having a hell of a time accepting it.

_ “ _This uppity lil' rich prick.” Cutter grunts, “thinks his shit don't stink. Now listen Baby, I want you to watch after your Momma while I'm gone, alright? It ain't gonna be much longer.” There's a lump rising in his throat, he has to force it back down.

_ “ _And don't let Otis- push y'all around none, you're the boss while I ain't there and you tell him I said that.”

_ “ _Daddy?” Baby's voice is quieter now. “Are you sure you're alright?”

_ “ _Yeah, course I am!” Cutter forced the joviality. If Baby knew the truth, she'd come riding in on a big black stallion with guns a'blazin' no matter what he said to the contrary. He managed a laugh, a flat sounding ha-ha-ha. “Goddamn rich prick coffee is givin' me indigestion. I'll tell you what, Baby, I'll call ya every Sunday 'till I'm back home and we can talk proper.”

There's silence on the other end and Cutter fears that Baby's took off, left the phone just dangling there, hopped in a car and was headed this way. When her voice came back, the relief felt cold.

_ “ _Okay daddy. Every Sunday, ten o' clock.”

_ “ _Every Sunday, ten o' clock.” Cutter echoes, eyes closing as a tear slips down his cheek and disappears into his rough beard.

_ “ _Miss you, daddy.”

_ “ _Miss you too, Baby. Give Momma and your brothers my love.”

The click on the other end of the line made him want to weep, but there was a whole lot more phone calls to make. He called Stucky, roused his ass outta bed and told him to get down to the shop. He was going to be gone a couple weeks, by the look of it. No, he didn't need no help with it. He cooed to Chica and Mucus through the phone – both of his puppies went into spasms of joy hearing his voice. When he hung up with all them, he started calling Charlie.

His fucking brother. Charlie.

The line kept ringing and cutting off. Cutter kept dialing. And dialing. And dialing. Charlie couldn't avoid him forever. He couldn't pretend like he hadn't left good ol' Cutter with his ass in the wind. Charlie could keep fucking dreaming.

_ “ _Yeah?” A pause, “Charlie's Frontier Fun Town. You need'n something?”

Cutter closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying for a little patience. It was Clevon's husky voice on the line, not Charlie's. Wasn't exactly who he was lookin' to ream out, Cutter digs deep, trying for a little joviality instead of the black anger he was feeling towards his brother.

_ “ _Clevon!” Cutter cries, like he hadn't just wiped salty tears off his cheeks, like he didn't have a white-knuckled grip on the handset now, cold fury sitting in his chest like a block of ice. “How ya doin'? It's Cutter! Listen now, I'd love to have a chat with ya, but I gotta ask Charlie somethin', he around?”

_ “ _Uhhh.” Clevon goes quiet for a minute. Cutter can hear Charlie in the background, faint but there. His brother was a whole lotta things but he sure as shit wasn't the brightest crayon in the fuckin' box. “No?”

Clevon sounds doubtful. Cutter knows how much the man hates lying about anything, but Charlie had been taking advantage of Clevon's good nature for a long time. Clevon did most of the cooking and cleaning around Charlie's cut-rate brothel, tossed out for the good for nothin' shits that tried to get rough with the girls too, ever since Cutter quit. Cutter didn't have any kinda quarrel with Clevon, but his patience was thin as a cheap condom and getting ready to tear right open.

_ “ _Now Clevon. You tell Charlie to git his ass on the goddamn phone 'fore I reach on through here and tear it off.” Gone is the jovial tone, replaced by a dark and dangerous growl.

There's the sound of scuffling on the other side of the line, Charlie's low hissing and Clevon's lower protests. Cutter's eyes close. There's the faint sound of the plastic creaking in his hand.

_ “ _Cutter! My brotha!” Charlie's there so abruptly Cutter nearly punches the phone for lack of a face. “How you doin'-”

_ “ _Cut the SHIT, Charlie.” Cutter barks, anger making his vision go red. “You know EXACTLY how I'm fuckin' doing! You did even show the fuck up!”

_ “ _Now, now Cutter, listen.” Charlie's chuckling, nervous. “Listen, Candy got sick and-”

_ “ _YOU LEFT ME WITH MY DICK IN MY FUCKIN' HAND!” Cutter's bellowing into the phone, “DIDN'T SHOW FOR YOUR FUCKIN' BROTHER, CHARLIE! DIDN'T GIVE A FUCKIN' SHIT!”

_ “ _Cutter-”

_ “ _DIDN'T EVEN FUCKIN' TRY!”

** _Click._ **

Cutter's eyes go wide, bugging out, spittle shining on his teeth and lips as his head turns, slow, staring at the phone now making the stupid drone of a dead line. His grip tightens. Tightens. Clenches. The plastic creaks in desperation, making a loud POP! As a long crack snakes up the side. It splinters, crumbles.

Cutter begins to beat at the base with it, not even realizing he's screaming. The bell inside clangs off-key, adding to the pandemonium.

_ “ _STUPID PIG FUCKING WHORE PUSSY SON OF A BITCH!” Cutter seizes the now badly bashed telephone in both hands, ripping it out of the wall with a violent yank. He turns, his screams gone senseless and animalistic, and throws.

Those stupid-big windows were more than just windows, they were gigantic sliding glass doors. Charley had opened several this morning to let in the pleasant air of early October, and, he hoped, let out more of the coying sweet-smell that always got worse after one of his brief quarterly cycles. Instead of smashing against the glass as Cutter intended, the phone flew out, over the railing of the balcony, and into oblivion.

Charley had done the breakfast dishes as quickly as possibly, leaving them to drip-dry on the rack instead of toweling them off and putting them away as he usually would. He wanted to give Cutter his privacy while he made his phone calls. The man didn't have to worry that he would be listening in on his conversations, it was the only phone in the entire apartment. Most of Charley's business dealings went by mail, he hated talking on the phone, finding himself interrupting when he really shouldn't.

He had gone to his little office after the dishes, slipping on his headphones and humming along quietly to a Meatloaf track. He liked music – he had a record player and a stereo system as well, but that might have been bothersome to his unwilling roommate.

Charley had opened the curtains, the room on the same side of the building as Cutter's was. The gemstones were spread out on velvet cushions in small trays, sparkling in the sunlight. Most of these had been sold and now he weighed each one, examining them through a loupe to reassure himself of quality. He marked down the carats, quality, color, and cut of each one before carefully packaging them in tiny boxes, the jewels nestled down on their own private velvet cushions and protected with a plastic cover.

Charley had a small row finished when the yelling started. He could hear it even over the music, lowering the headphones to hang around his neck as he stared at the wall, towards the kitchen and living room. It made him nervous, that primal scream of rage, even blunted by the walls that separated them. He hoped nothing terrible had happened at Mr. Spaulding's home. Then, as if cut by a knife, everything went silent. Charley bit at his lip, uncertain.

Just as he decided to check on Mr. Spaulding, the door flew open with a bang.

Charley jumped, a startled squeak leaving his throat before he could stop it, one leg jerking up and smashing into the underside of his desk and spilling a mess of emeralds on the floor. He noticed Cutter's scent, first, the smell of an alpha out of his mind with anger. Hot and sharp and smokey, like a wildfire gone out of control. Charley cringed in his seat, legs drawing up, the instinct to be as small and nonthreatening as possible taking over as his bodies dump his own fear pheromones, a bitter almond smell. He could feel each heavy, furious footstep as the big alpha approached. Charley's eyes screwed shut, face turning away as he tensed, expecting the worst.

_ “ _Phone broke.” It was all Cutter said. By the time Charley could muster a tiny 'okay', the man was gone.

Close to twenty minutes passed before Charley dared to unfurl, looking up with wide, nervous eyes. The door was hanging at a strange angle, an imprint of it in the wall, complete with a small, neat hole where the handle had punched through. He would have to call a repairman and the thought filled with him dread – but of course he would have to see how badly the phone was broken before he could, and if it was beyond repair he would have to go out and buy one. This eased him exactly not at all. Charley looked with dismay at the glittering treasures now dusted across the floor, sliding down to begin picking them up again. His legs were trembling too badly to stand and his hands were shaking even worse, dropping more stones than he manages to pick up until finally he simply brushed them into a pile. Charley sat on the floor, head down and close to tears. Why did he have to be so afraid? All the money in the world hadn't changed that, if anything it had made it worse. Allowing him to hide far away from everything that might try to hurt him.

Charley sat there a while longer, minutes dragging past as he sucked back the tears and willed himself to stop shaking. Eventually, he did. Cutter's anger still hung like a dark cloud, anxiety twisting in his stomach like a knife but at least he could scoop the jewels off the floor and dump them back into the tray. It didn't seem as if anything had been disturbed too badly but he neatened it anyway, dejectedly straightening boxes and spreading the sparkling emeralds out better. He knew that he should check on Mr. Spaulding and have a look at the phone, but he wanted nothing more than to avoid both of those things right now.

He was in the midst of talking himself into it when Cutter spoke up behind him again, making him jump a second time. One gemstone made a run for it, Charley slapped his hand down before it could skitter off the edge of the desk.

_ “ _This some kinda rich prick hobby of yours?” Cutter was chewing on a piece of bacon he'd gotten out of the fridge – not before staring at the bounty in there and cursing every rich prick sonofabitch on the face of the earth, though. Now he stood in the doorway, staring at Charley, staring at what had to be a lifetime worth of money just laying there like a handful of common gravel. Cutter sauntered closer, looking down at all of it while he crunched and huffed around his cold bacon.

_ “ _No.” Charley's tone is defensive, putting the emerald that had made a bid for freedom back where it belonged. “This is my business. I'm a gem dealer.”

_ “ _So ya sell shiny rocks to rich pricks.” Cutter picks up a great big fat one, holding it up to the light and watching the shimmer burst from it as he moves it slowly back and forth.

_ “ _Something like that, yes.” Charley frowns up at him. It was barely past breakfast and already he felt exhausted. “Can you put that back, please?”

_ “ _Why?” Cutter grunted, biting down on the stone. “You gotta 'nuff.”

_ “ _These have already been sold.” Charley replied and Cutter simply, tossed the stone back at him. Charley caught it, but barely, fumbling it before he got a hold on it, setting it back where Cutter had picked it up from. It didn't look like he was going to get any work done today, not with Mr. Spaulding in the mood that he was in. Charley could still smell it on him, it had subsided to some extent but certainly hadn't gone entirely.

_ “ _How badly is the phone broken?” Charley asked them, looking up at the big man, hands folded in his lap. How he hoped for a nice, simple answer like 'not very'. Maybe the phone jack was just acting up again, it did that sometimes.

_ “ _Eh.” Cutter grunted, stuffing the rest of the bacon in his mouth, chewing loudly. “Threw it off the balcony.” Mumbling as he bent over the tray to get a better look at the gems. Some good quality shit there, nothin' glass or plastic or rife with imperfections.

_ “ _Off....off the balcony?” Charley had gone an alarming shade of white. Cutter didn't much notice, grunting out a little “yup” as he continued to browse the selection of deep green.

_ “ _You only deal in these or somethin'?” Cutter asked, he liked 'em better than borin' old diamonds but all of the same wasn't all that excitin' either.

_ “ _No...no. Um.” Charley frowned, looking distressed, fingers twisting together. “Follow me, I'll show you my private collection.”

Charley stood and walked out of the room, Cutter ambling along behind him. There was some kinda funny smell about him, sorta bitter, but he brushed it off. Probably one of those fancy goddamn soaps the kid no doubt used. Charley led him to what Cutter could only guess was his bedroom – it was pretty fuckin' dark, and the kid didn't seem to have any interest in turning on any kinda lights. He just kept going, Cutter squinting as he trudged after him. The kid pulled open another door, those lights he turned on.

Cutter found himself breathless, if only for a moment.

The room was long, lit with bright, clean light. Cases atop drawers next to more cases, stretching out in glimmering, glittery splendor with what had to be every goddamn color under the sun. Cutter saw rubies and emeralds, sapphires and amethysts. He whistled low between his teeth, pushing past Charley to walk in further, bending slightly to look closer at each case as he passed.

_ “ _This all yours, huh?” Cutter bends over another case, this one filled with glitter aquamarine, eyes narrowed in a squint. “Been busy, have ya?”

_ “ _Yes.” There's a slight note of pride in Charley's voice. Cutter can respect that, the kid sure as shit didn't stumble across all this by chance.

_ “ _Come look at this.” There's the slightest brush of fingers across Cutter's elbow, his eyes narrowing dangerously before relaxing again. Charley's at a case in the back, gently lifting the lid back. Cutter marches over, an eyebrow raising. There was a couple rough looking rocks, few of them cut.

_ “ _What's so special about all this?” Cutter picked up one of the better looking ones, a black stone that looked to be filled with rainbow fire.

_ “ _It's the rarest ones I have, and some of my favorites. That's black opal you're holding. It's some of my favorite.” Charley points out others, “larimar, only found in a small area of the Dominican Republic. Paraiba tourmaline, from Brazil. Alexandrite, from Russia. That will shift colors depending on the light. Benitoite, from California. Painite...that's from Burma. And over there is Red Beryl, from Mexico, isn't that purple color lovely? Oh, and those are Padparadscha sapphires, from Sri Lanka, most people don't expect a sapphire to be a salmon color.”

Charley looked up at Cutter with a smile, relaxed...happier, now. This was his element, something he knew, had a skill in, what had allowed him to build his life to this point. It was so rare he was able to share it with anyone, his nerves often got in the way. Beyond himself and now Mr. Spaulding, no one even knew it was here. Charley nibbled on his lower lip for a moment, considering in silence. Mr. Spaulding didn't really seem like a fancy box type, but he did have something else he thought the big man might like. Charley left Mr. Spaulding alone with the jewels, going to a tiny cabinet tucked away in a corner. From this he produced a soft black bag with a red drawstring of braided silk. When he returned he plucked the black opal Cutter was admiring in light out of his hand, dropping it into the bag and sticking it where the stone had been instead before he could protest.

Cutter looked from the bag to Charley, then back to the bag again.

_ “ _You're giving me this?” Cutter looks at him, hard, voice full of doubt. “Why the fuck'er you doin' that? This some kinda bribe?”

The kid is looking at him with this puzzled look that might've been cute under any other circumstance. All big eyed and fulla confusion. Maybe it wasn't some sorta bribe, but Cutter couldn't think of any other reason why Charley was handing him a rock that looked like it cost more than what Charley paid for him at that goddamn slave auction.

_ “ _No, not at all.” Charley replies and Cutter's inclined to believe him. Charley seems like the sorta person that start stammering and goin' all red if he tried to lie. There's doubt, still, it's hard to trust someone that bought you from a fuckin' action like cow.

_ “ _It's just...” Now Charley's squirming, rocking back on his feet, fingers fidgetin'. “I've...never really been able to share all this with anyone before. All these pretty things...and they just sit in the dark. My brother and his partner visit sometimes but they're not really...interested in any of it, not like I am.”

Then Charley looks up and he smiles, a shy smile but it's like the sun breaking through the clouds after a week of rain. Making those blue eyes light up and sparkle like the stones they're surrounded by. And then he's off again, talking about pink diamonds and different cuts, star stones and opals and the different shades of rubies. Cutter finds himself following the kid back and forth as that soft black bag grows heavier in his hand, slim, pale fingers slipping bright gems into it with each stop they make.

Cutter has a moment to wonder if the kid's ever played piano, and then Charley's shoving a loupe into his hand and encouraging him to look closer at a large mint-green stone, taken out of one those lil' drawers under cases. Cutter holds the loupe up to his eye, peering into the gemstone's depths while Charley goes off, opening another drawer, probably look'n for somethin' else to show him or tuck into his lil' bag that's a lot heavier than when they started.

That soft, shy voice speaks up beside him.

_ “ _May I?”

Cutter grunts, think'n the kid wants his stone and loupe back but it's his big ol' paw Charley takes instead, careful, as if he's afraid Cutter might break. He slips a ring onto his pinkie, a heavy gold thing with a fierce dragon on top, curled around a Pigeon-Blood Ruby, claws clutching it. Cutter stares at it, setting the loupe and mint-colored stone down on the glass surface of a cabinet to get a closer look.

_ “ _It's eighteen karat gold...the stone is ten carats, as memory serves.” Charley's sounds so goddamn bashful, standing there beside him, “I got it in Nepal from a goldsmith...do you like it?”

Cutter's speechless. He's never speechless and here he is, gawking at it like Charley has just handed him a goddamn baby outta nowhere. The fine details are lost to him, without his glasses his old eyes just can't manage the tiny things anymore. But he can feel them, even rubbing the callused pad of his thumb along the side of that curled dragon. There's a lump in the back of his throat again, he swallows it down.

_ “ _It's alright.” Cutter finally mumbles, groping for the loupe, turning away slightly as he held it up to his eye, hunkering over so he could peer closer at it. The details jumped, the fine scales, how the claws gripped the rich, deep colored stone. Cutter doesn't hear a peep of complaint or pleasure from Charley but he can smell it, ripe peaches, warm wildflower honey and soft vanilla.

An irritating buzz interrupts.

_ “ _That's the doorbell.” Charley explains and he's off, Cutter glances up to see a slight spring in his set that wasn't there before. Lil' shit. Cutter sets the loupe down, liking how the ring felt, weighing on his tattooed finger. He picked up his sack of loot and wandered out into the bedroom. Why'd the kid keep it so goddamn dark? Clean as the rest of the house was, he was probably just embarrassed about some underwear laying around on the floor. He wouldn't be back for a minute, would he?

Cutter groped around the wall just outside the door to the room of gemstones, found a light switch and flicked it on. Instead of of a mess of dirty clothes scattered across the floor and every other available surface a neat, warm room came into view. Heavy curtains obscured the windows on the far wall, more pulled back around the bed. The walls were dominated by more shelves, books and rocks and foreign looking trinkets. He ambled over to get a better look at a huge purple geode, now looking very pretty in the light. Cutter glanced over at the neatly made bed – his own was still a disaster, unless Charley had gone in there and neatened it while he wasn't looking. There was a pile of furs at the foot and he moved casually over there to touch. Just checking if they were real, was all.

Cutter brushed his fingers over them, eyes widening at the scent that came with the act. It was deeper, stronger than what he had caught from Charley before. Rich and sweet and pure. Without thinking he bent down, ignoring the warning twinge in his back and buried his face into it, fingers gripping down as he inhaled.

_ Jesus. _

The effect was heady and immediate. Cutter groaned, low, a chesty sound that was nearly a purr. His mouth hung open, tasting it on his tongue. His cock swelled, straining the limitations of the loose slacks Charley had set out for him, dampening his undershorts with salty precum. The urge to slide into the bed, rub his scent all over it and claim his territory was nearly overwhelming, viciously primal. He wanted to strip naked and fuckin' roll in it, cover every square goddamn inch, melding their scents together, the sweet and the spice. Cutter growled, low, rubbing his beard against the fur, wanting to grab and fuck and-

The sound of the front door shutting firmly snapped him out of his daze. Cutter straightened up immediately with a snort, his back giving a harsher twinge before falling silent. Rapidly he adjusted himself, smoothed his clothes and power walked back over to the shelf of rocks. There were some damn good look'n specimens on there, all lined up and labeled in what he assumed was Charley's small, neat print.

_ “ _Security brought the phone back.” Charley spoke up behind him and Cutter turned with an eyebrow raised.

_ “ _Did they? Some kinda fancy fuckin' service here.”

Charley shrugged slightly, holding up a sack with what could only be the remains of the phone after a twenty-story drop. Cutter felt a slight pang of guilt, remembering briefly the cord shooting off over the side of the balcony. He crushed it down immediately.

_ “ _I told them I dropped it. I was wondering if...maybe.” Charley starts, stops. Cutter can see him clamming up again, how his shoulders kinda curl in, fingers twisting together, avoiding direct eye contact. Retreating deep into his personal walls. “If maybe...you'd go to the store with me? To get another phone? It's the only one in the house.”

Charley almost seems embarrassed to ask. Cutter nods, slow, scratching absently at his beard.

_ “ _Sure, ain't got nothin' better to do.”

The kid perks up a little again at that, a hint of a smile perking up the corners of his mouth. He gestures slightly down the hall towards Cutter's room.

_ “ _I put your shoes by your bed...and I washed your prison clothes. Not um, not the jumpsuit, I threw that away. But the ones you were wearing when you went...in? The uh, the silk suit I sent to be dry cleaned.” Charley's biting at his lip. “I hope that's okay.”

_ “ _Silk suit.” Cutter grunts, squinting at the kid. “Y'mean the clown suit?”

_ “ _Yeah. Yes.” Charley nods, seemingly relieved that Cutter wasn't flying off the handle about it. “My dry cleaner is, very, very good. I've known them for several years. They've handled silk before.”

_ “ _Uh huh.” Cutter grunts, staring Charley down again. Nearly glaring, bag full of jewels clutched in one hand. Probably looked like a goddamn crazy man. A goddamn miracle, far as he was concerned.

_ “ _I'll just...go get ready.” Charley gestured slightly down the hall with his sack full of smashed phone bits, hesitating before he scurried off again.

Cutter breathed a sigh of relief. God_ damn _.

Goin' to the damn store was a whole fuckin' horse and pony show. Charley all bundled in his weird clothes – turned out to be a long, thick coat, that ugly damn cap, and gloves for christsake. Cutter didn't comment too much about it, whatever got the kid's goat, and he was still in a fine mood. Belly full and ring lookin' damn good on his finger, fittin' just right. Charley's damn driver was still a fuckin' uptight prick, Cutter made sure to make an extra stupid face at him.

Together they made one hell of a pair. Cutter didn't know what the hell kinda laundry soap Charley was using but his hotdog t-shirt – IF I WANTED TO LISTEN TO AN ASSHOLE, I'D FART! Emblazoned across the back – was as crisp and clean as the day it came off the factory line. And his underwear! Holy flamin' christ! It wasn't just clean, it was goddamn flat ironed. Even his grubby old boots seemed polished and tidied up.

The car dropped them off at the sorta place you saw in the movies, where a pair a socks cost ya fifty damn bucks and you got complimentary asshole polish with every overpriced pack of panties you purchased. Cutter strolled on in there like he owned the place, even stopping to comment to the security guard with a fuck-you tone as he gestured to Charley: “I'm with _ him. _”

Shit, even Cutter could admit there was a few dandy perks to havin' your own private Uptight Rich Prick. He bugged his eyes out at snotty children 'till they ran off crying to their nannies, leered and slobbered at uppity hussies with sticks bigger than Charley's shoved up their asses 'till pearls were clutched and they scurried off to complain to management. All Cutter had to do was look at Charley with a pointed grin and whatever suited cunt came over to 'speak to him' stomped away in a huff. Charley currently leading them in a lost, meandering line through the place and avoiding every security guard and salesperson like they had the plague. Cutter didn't mind, he was havin' too much goddamn fun making the rich folks clench their asses and run.

When Charley eventually found the phones, Cutter left him to it, wandering off to touch shit they sure as shit didn't want him touching. He yawned overly loud and wide, picked his underwear out of his crack, scratched his nuts, sniffed his armpits and crop dusted two little old ladies dripping in furs and gaudy jewelry with a finger firmly firmly screwed up his nose.

Cutter was already picking his next target – a real bitch lookin' woman with her nose so high in the damn air it was a wonder somethin' hadn't flown up it yet – when Charley came scurrying over, paler than ever, arms pressed against his chest, fingers twisting together. Damn near whispering an' fuck if Cutter didn't hate when he did that: “We have to go.”

Cutter looked him up and down, then squinted over his shoulder. One of those hoity-toity salesmen was lingering near the array of telephones, grinning and nodding like an egg-suck dog at anyone that went by.

_ “ _Y'ain't gotta phone.”

_ “ _I know.”

_ “ _Ya dragged me in here to get a phone.”

_ “ _I know.”

_ “ _So what's the problem? They ain't got the damn phone you want?”

_ “ _ No. It's just.” Charley's mumbling and Cutter makes a low grunt of frustration, bracing himself on one of those fancy shelves so he can lean down to hear him better. Good thing he did because Charley's just about fuckin' _ whispering _ now.

_ “ _The salesman tried to talk to me.”

_ “ _Yuh?”

_ “ _I told him I have gas. I can never come here again.”

Cutter's silent for a long moment before he lifts a heavy hand, dropping it like a dead weight on Charley's shoulder. It's a half a miracle the kid doesn't crumble like paper cup right then, Cutter can feel him trembling even through them thick fuckin' clothes of his. He straightens up, scoffs.

_ “ _Over a couple fake farts? Come the fuck on, I've looked them whore sons straight in the eye and let 'em rip. C'mon, we're getting a goddamn phone.”

_ “ _No, Mr. Spaulding, I lied about that, we can go someplace else really it's fine-”

Cutter isn't listening to the protests, he's steering Charley right back the way he came, half dragging the lil' feller over there. The salesman perks up at the sight of his potential victim headed back his way, so focused on Charley he doesn't even notice Cutter until there's a big paw in his face, using it like a handle to steer him right off and out of the way with no more than a “nope!” for comment. He parks Charley right in front of the damn phones, all of them ranging from Beige to Ultra Beige. Cutter rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his barrel chest as he looked down at the kid.

_ “ _Well, whatcha want?”

_ “ _I...don't know.” Charley's mumbling again, not even really lookin' at the goddamn things. Not that there was much to look at but shit. Cutter takes a deep breath, trying to rein in his patience before it ran off into the damn sunset. He's about to speak up again when Charley does instead, looking at him now instead of the christin' phones.

_ “ _Why don't you pick? You have good taste in things.”

Cutter looked down at his hot-dog t-shirt, then back at Charley, raising an eyebrow damn near halfway up his forehead. The kid looked damn serious about it, nearly pleadin' for him to do it.

_ “ _Shit. Don't wanna hear any goddamn complaints.” Cutter grunted, strolling off past all the boring shit and down to where the real fun began. Lil' ways down they had pink phones, red phones, hamburger phones, lip phones, gater phones, a phone with a great big red mouth and a long pink tongue hanging outta it. Cutter passed over that one, too much like what Charlie would have in his damn brothel. Now the blaze yellow smiley-face phone – now there was something fine. Cutter plucked that box off the shelf and tucked it under his arm, strolling off in the direction he had seen the registers when they came in. Charley hurried after him, how was that for a change in the fuckin' order of things?

Cutter silenced the blonde at the register with a hard stare before her perky little greeting barely left her mouth and they got out double-quick after that, Charley with his head down, making eye contact with absolutely nobody. The car didn't even get moving straight off after Charley slid in and Cutter flopped. He was starting to think that driver was some kinda damn robot.

_ “ _Are you hungry? It's about lunchtime.” Charley spoke up first, some of the color starting to come back into his face. Cutter figured he was right, the kid couldn't lie worth a goddamn about anything.

_ “ _Depends on what you're offerin'.” Cutter stuck the box – now tucked in a fancy fuckin' bag – between them on the seat.

_ “ _Oh. Um. Whatever you want.”

_ “ _Well in that case.” Cutter grinned a flat smile, “know anywhere we can get some good goddamn fried chicken?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos encourage Cutter to rub his face on Charley's nesting furs and not get caught.


	5. November - Books & Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cutter feels boredom and shame, Charley has a surprise and offers forgiveness.

October turned into November without complaint. Cutter didn't even realize he missed Halloween – his favorite fuckin' holiday! - until he asked Charley what goddamn day it happened to be and the kid told him it was a good three days past what was just about the best day in the whole year. There wasn't much as far as arguments, the kid always seemed to be around but otherwise they sorta settled into a. Bland existence. Good food and not much else. Cutter tried not to think about that day in Charley's bedroom, tried not to think about the sleepless nights that followed. Layin' awake and arguing with himself, knowing he could just walk down a few goddamn doors and get what was callin' for him. Given how Charley was he'd likely end up back in his own bed with his balls singing' opera. Or laying in a puddle of his own piss when the kid set off the fuckin' zapper implanted in his neck.

Cutter found himself turning to reading more, snatching books up at random and crushing the fancy couches under his weight when he dropped down on them. First it was out of a desperation for distraction, then out of real interest. Charley noticed, of course he did, not long after a couple bookshelves turned up in his room, along with a desk under the window. Cutter didn't know just what in the hell he was supposed to do with a damn desk but there it was anyhow. He 'sposed he could always sit down and write his memoirs about how goddamn bored and frustrated he was. Shove  _ that _ up some uptight publisher's asshole.

In-between books and ample meals, he roamed the apartment like a grumpy old bear staking out territory. After discovering the lil' toolkit Charley kept under the sink he dismantled one of the bookshelves and built himself a stand for his gemstones. Walked off with a couple rolls of velvet Charley had stashed away and in no time he had it lookin' fine, his pretty rocks all shining and shimmering when the sun was out, each one nestled on a private pillow.

The kid was quiet, Cutter gave him that much. Left him alone when he was on the phone, didn't come pestering him with stupid questions. But goddamnit what he wouldn't have given for a little intelligent conversation, even a screamin' argument at this point. Was it so much to ask for a lil' bit of that passion Charley let out after he got nagged half into his grave at breakfast? Sure as shit didn't help that the kid didn't want to step foot out of his goddamn front door unless it was some kinda emergency. Sure, he set lunch out on the balcony when the weather was nice but that hardly counted for a shit.

He was settling in for another day of being' bored outta his goddamn skull, sacked out on the couch as he cracked open his latest book; a thick tomb of a thing about the history of Nepal. It was a whole lot more interesting that he thought it was gonna be, but he'd always been hungry for new information. Charlie liked to tell him he was a fuckin' idiot, but did Charlie know Nepal had eight outta ten of the highest mountains in the world? Cutter didn't-fuckin'-think-so. He was about to delve into the legends of the Yetis when that soft little voice piped up from the other end of the sofa.

_ “ _ What are you reading?”

_ “ _ Eh?” Cutter grunted, a frown creasing his face as he closed the book slightly to get a look at the title. “History of Nepal.” Cutter looked over at the kid, expression flat with irritation. “This some first edition million dollar thing a king farted on?”

_ “ _ No, actually.” There was one of those smiles, the kind that made those big damned Bambi eyes sparkle. “I bought it for a buck fifty at a thrift shop, right before I went on my first trip. I was...” Charley makes a low, considering sound in his throat. “Seventeen, then.”

_ “ _ A whole three years ago.” Cutter replied, voice dry as the desert. “Ya must've really hit the jackpot to get all this in jus' three fuckin' years.”

_ “ _ What?” Charley blinked, damned if he didn't look thrown for a loop! Probably thought a country bumpkin like Cutter couldn't do math and figure that a twenty year old kid like him was seventeen three damn years ago.

_ “ _ No...that was almost ten years ago.” There was that goddamn innocence in his voice that Cutter wasn't about to trust. There was a whole lotta people capable of pullin' that shit, acting all angelic just to get their way with you.

_ “ _ Bullshit.” Cutter grunted, his attention already going back to the legends of the Yetis in the mountains of Nepal. But the kid wasn't taking the hint that he wasn't buyin' what he tryin' to sell.

_ “ _ Not bullshit.” Charley protested and Cutter smacked the book down in his lap with an irritated sigh. “I'm twenty-six. I turn twenty-seven on March Twenty-fourth. I can show you my ID if you don't believe me.”

Cutter stared him down for a long minute. It was hard to argue with somethin' like that. Sure, the kid could've had a fake ID made but figurin' how he near didn't buy a goddamn phone just 'cause a salesman said hello, Cutter didn't think he was going off to the sorta sketchy joints where you could get a good one made up.

_ “ _ Well you don't look like no twenty-six.” Cutter grumbled at him. “'Spose you went to Nepal to buy a buncha fancy rocks?”

_ “ _ Yeah. I had two grand in my pocket and a barely conversational grasp of Nepali.” Charley settled back into his little corner of the couch again. “I thought I was ready for it, just reading about the country on the plane. I was...anything but, when I got there. But the people were amazing. They'd give you the last shirt off their back, you know?” Charley had a quiet, wistful smile on his face at the memory.

_ “ _ And I was a little lucky, yeah. I met this kid, he couldn't have been more than twelve years old. He spoke about as much English as I did Nepali so we got this....cheap little translation book. It was awful, but it worked. He took me up into the mountains to this mine, it was all dirt paths, the kid, Imay, was his name, said no to bicycles so it was all on foot. We hiked for days but I got some beautiful stones there. Got my business off the ground.”

Cutter gave a low, rumbling grunt, a sign that he was listening. Charley was so goddamn ice cold all the time, clammed up and hidden away from the world it really wasn't all that bad seeing him like this. Open and warm. Recallin' memories of hiking through the jungle with a kid, all on the hope that there was treasure at the end of the rainbow.

_ “ _ We were about two days into the trip back, in this really dense part of the jungle and Imay holds up his hand. Telling me to stop. I tried to ask why, you know maybe there was a rock slide or something ahead and we had to be careful. All he said was  _ shhh, bāgha, bāgha _ . I didn't have a clue what he was saying, I could ask where the bathroom was or maybe the airport but I never heard  _ bāgha  _ before. So we're stopped and the whole jungle goes...dead silent. It felt like if you dropped a pin the sound would have echoed for miles. Then this...beautiful tiger comes out from between the trees. He was huge, looked big as a donkey at the time. I remember being afraid that he was going to turn around and just, grab Imay and drag him off. I didn't know who Imay's parents were, who his family was, he would have gone missing. But the tiger didn't. He barely even spared us a glance and kept on going, disappeared into the jungle. After a few minutes the birds started singing again and we kept hiking. Didn't see another one.”

Charley gives Cutter this soft little half smile, “it wasn't until a whole lot later that I learned that tigers tend to chase people on bicycles. They usually leave people alone, though, unless they're too injured to hunt their normal prey. Then they become man-eaters.”

_ “ _ Huh.” Cutter scoffed but with no real venom behind it. The kid sure as hell had a lot more interesting experiences than he did down in goddamned Ruggsville, there wasn't any tigers to stumble across in ass crack of Texas. And what was Charley doing with opportunities like that? Sittin' around his high-rise apartment doing the same shit every fuckin' day.

_ “ _ How come you don't go an' do things like that more often? Helluva lot better than jus' sittin' around the house all fuckin' day.” Cutter scratched at his increasingly scruffy beard. He was thinking about trimming it down some, fuckin' thing was start to itch. “Sounds to me like you had some fun out there.”

_ “ _ I do. Go, that is. But I don't need to as much anymore.” Charley bites his lip with a slight shrug. “I go for a month or two at a time, starting in the summer. I like to be back for my, ah.” A faint flush creeps up in his pale cheeks. “My...cycles, and being home over winter is nice. I was going to ask you uh, later. If you wanted to come with me when I go gem hunting.”

_ “ _ Well fuck yes I'd go!” Cutter dog-eared his page and snapped the book shut, shoving it over on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Better than bein' cooped up here! I don't fuckin' know what kinda happiness you get outta bein' locked in here day in and day out. It's drivin' me fuckin' crazy, Junior. Don't like havin' all this time to think.”

_ “ _ Oh.” Charley blinked. It really hadn't occurred to him that maybe Mr. Spaulding couldn't tolerate being trapped inside all day long for weeks, months at a time. He didn't want to admit how unhappy he really was with no one to talk to. No one he could share memories or meals with. Charley didn't want to admit it anymore than he wanted to say how much the outside world scared him. How much he feared discovery.

_ “ _ I didn't..I didn't actually come over just to ask you about your book.” Charley continues, looking down at his hands, playing with the soft edges of the sleeves of his sweater. “And I didn't want to say anything before everything was approved. I didn't want you to be upset in the event it was denied.”

Cutter's eyes are narrowed again, wondering just what the fuck the kid was on about this time. His annoyance is coming back and with a vengeance. “Yeah?”

_ “ _ You see, your tracker?” Charley's hand strays up, almost automatically to the back of his neck where Cutter's two implants are located. Cutter stares. Yeah, he knows what the kid is fuckin’ talking about. He ain’t stupid.

_ “ _ It has a certain mile radius, otherwise it would trigger an alarm with the police and you could be arrested. To go outside that you have to apply for an extension, for however many weeks, to wherever it is you want to go. I didn't think it would be but...the cops, you know.”

Cutter only nods, exceedingly slow. “Fuckin' pigs.”

_ “ _ They've never denied mine before but-”

“Wait, wait, rewind.” Cutter holds up his hands, shaking his head. “What're you sayin' yours? You some kinda criminal, kid?”

_ “ _ Me? Oh, no. I've never been arrested in my life. But when it came out...what I was, when I was thirteen. It's the law, for male omegas to have a tracker implanted. In the event we go insane or commit a crime...we can be easily located.” Charley dragged his teeth over his lower lip, that old nervous gesture before reaching out, taking Cutter's hand, the one bearing the ring, as gently as he had on the day he slipped it on the man's finger. Charley scooted over a little, just a touch closer, lifting Cutter's fingers up to his neck, pressing them just behind his left ear.

Cutter could feel it, just as easily as he could feel his. That little pill shaped lump under the skin, 'cept Charley only had one where he had two. And those fine little pianist fingers, gently wrapped around his big rough ones.

“My father wanted a stunner implanted as well. But they didn't allow it, not available for civilians without records.” Charley's voice is quiet but his words hit Cutter like a slap in the fuckin' face. Cutter's opening his mouth, ready to demand to know what kinda crazy shit-house dirty rat Charley's father was when the kid overrode him again. Lil' devil was a gold medal champion when it came to interrupting him. Interrupting and sliding back into his corner, curling up there, looking everywhere but him again.

_ “ _ But they approved both so I got these.” It takes Cutter a moment to realize that Charley's holding out a couple of plane tickets. Cutter takes them, pulling his reading glasses down from the top of his head and settling them on his nose – he'd found 'em along with the rest of his 'prison stuff' as Charley called it, piled up on his bed.

_ “ _ Dallas.” Cutter grunted. “The fuck you want in Dallas?”

“It's...it's the closest airport to Ruggsville.” Charley's mumbling, “we'll have to take a car from the airport, but I thought maybe-”

Cutter's staring at the kid, eyes comically wide behind his reading glasses.

_ “ _ What's the fuckin' catch, junior?”

_ “ _ The...catch?” Charley looked puzzled, uncertain. He would have thought that he'd get used to Mr. Spaulding's abrupt jabs in search of an ulterior motive, like a callus might form on a finger from the constant pressure of a pen, but it still came as a surprise every time. “There's no catch, Mr. Spaulding. I just thought it might be nice for you to see your family instead of just talking over the phone.”

_ “ _ But why the fuck’er are you doin' this for me?” Cutter pushes his glasses back up, turning, one folded arm resting on his knee as he leans closer and Charley presses back. “Why the fuck do you care so much about me and my fuckin' feelings?”

_ “ _ Well.” Charley makes a visible effort to relax, to not cringe back like a puppy afraid of being struck. “You're going to be here a while. Co-existing, with me. And it would be nice if you had a pleasant experience. I'm not a, um.” His fingers are twisting together, he makes himself stop. “What do you call them, a sadist?”

_ “ _ Yup. That's about what they call it alright.” Cutter sits back again, still watchin' the kid with a wary eye. Waiting for some kind of sign that there was some here. A hook, line and sinker hidden in the murk and ready for him to bite down nice and hard on the bait.

_ “ _ Well I'm not that, Mr. Spaulding. I couldn't be cruel to you. I certainly couldn't think of any sort of...ulterior motive I might have to a week long trip to Texas.” Charley paused, “except for maybe asking you to wear sunscreen. I hear it's very hot in Texas.”

_ “ _ 'Course it's fuckin' hot in Texas. It's fuckin' Texas, kid.” Cutter grunts, rolling his eyes and sacking out deeper into the couch, “what is it, huh? Am I just so damn irr-e-sis-ti-ble to ya or somethin'?”

_ “ _ I'm not capable of cruelty, Mister Spaulding.” There's a little line forming between Charley's eyes, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. “I would have a panic attack. Violence...it makes me want to vomit.”

_ “ _ So you ain't got the balls. Al'ight. Makes me sleep a lil' better.” Cutter dropped his glasses down off his big bald dome again to give the tickets a closer look. First Fuckin' Class to Dallas, Texas. 'Course it was First Class, rich boy like this sure as shit didn't fly no goddamn Economy.

_ “ _ ...why do you think I don't have any pets?”

_ “ _ Yuh?” Cutter hadn't been paying the slightest bit of attention and only caught the tail end of whatever Charley was on about now. He looked up, peering over the top edge of his reading glasses. “What do critters have to do about the price of tea in fuckin' China? I got two dogs and I treat them just fine.”

_ “ _ It's not that I'm worried I would treat them badly I'm more.” Goddamn if the kid doesn't look distressed again already. Cutter's starting to think he'll drop dead of a damn heart attack long before his five year sentence of so-called servitude is up. “What if I step on a paw? Or a tail?”

_ “ _ You don't got yourself a puppy 'cause your scared you might accidentally step on 'em or make 'em cry once.” Cutter's tone is dry as sandpaper. “So yer gonna deprive yourself of that kinda love and companionship? C'mon kid, ya gotta loosen up and live a lil'.”

_ “ _ But they'd remember it forever.” Charley's gearing up for a real argument, Cutter can see it. He's straightening up, squaring his shoulders, getting that hellfire look in his eye again. “It's much safer to simply provide recuses with the resources they need to feed and shelter those in need. The animals are provided for and the people find them good homes where they don't have to worry about being stepped on.”

_ “ _ Y'know.” Cutter pulls his glasses off, dropping them down on the history book. “If you say sorry they know you mean it. Read that in an animal psychology book.” Charley's still giving him a goddamn uncertain look, like his on the verge of believing but couldn't quiet get out of his own fuckin' head long enough to do it. Cutter heaves a heavy sigh.

_ “ _ Baby, dogs barely remember what happened hours ago. Why do you think they're so goddamn happy all the time? Fillin' their food dish is damn near the best thing that's happened to them in their whole life and that happens every damn day.”

**“** You.” Cutter levels a finger at him. “Let fear control your life too fuckin' much. You must have the tightest little asshole with all that time you spend worryin' and stickin' thing on up there!”

Charley's reaction was both immediate and hilarious, the kid going pale and then bright red, the air all shocked out of him 'till he tried to take a breath and choked on it.

**“** Mister Spaulding!” Charley managed to wheeze out, “that's- that's inappropriate!”

Cutter only snickered, a deep and chesty rumble as he reclined, picking at his teeth. “Wouldn't kill you to loosen up a lil', is all I'm sayin'.”

Charley cleared his throat, regaining his composure like a man forcing himself to swallow something particularly nasty. “I find that very hard to do, Mister Spaulding. It's easier for me in other places, but not here.”

**“** Like where?” Cutter leered, as good natured as a leer could be. “Nepal? See, I'm tellin' you kid! It's being in this goddamn house day in an' day out that's drivin' you batty!”

**“** It is  _ not _ .” Charley retorted, “it keeps me safe. Alphas here are...often lacking in respect. A great deal of it. I don't blame them for it, it's just the culture they've been raised in. But inside. Here. I'm safe.”

**“** You do realize that me bein' out there with you, might keep you safe, right?” Surely the kid couldn't be that damn dense. “Like, you  _ do _ realize that them other alphas you're so afraid of probably think we're fuckin'.”

“Yes. I realize that. It's just that it's. Unusual, to me.” Charley's flushed a soft pink but it fades again as quickly as it came, a sunset that's gone too quick. “Both my brother and my father were alphas, and they both held the belief that whatever happened to me is my own fault. Besides.”

Charley cleared his throat, “that belief only holds so long as they can't smell me, Mister Spaulding.”

_ “ _ Fuck, kid. I wouldn't just leave you to fend for yourself out there. Not outside, I ain't a total goddamn monster.” Cutter leveled a finger at him, eyebrows raising, “I'm startin' to like you, Junior, but you really gotta pull your head outta your fuckin' ass.”

“Mister Spaulding.” Charley's posture shifts slightly, as Cutter watches him there. Fingers twisting together in his lap again, but the movement is slow. Charley looks down at his hands, his thumb rubbing slowly over opposite knuckles.

“I don't...operate, like you do. For me, there's the logical half and the...I don't know what to call it...the idiot half, let's say.” A low exhale, Charley still doesn't look up, “I know you won't hurt me. Or allow me to be hurt, Mister Spaulding. I know that very well. But my idiot half insists that every time you get angry....you will. That every alpha on the street wants to take a slice out of me even when you're standing right there.”

Charley looks up finally with those soft blue eyes. There's no accusation in them but still Cutter feels a stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach, twisting like a hot knife.

“It's...it's in essence...an over-reactive survival instinct. Because of the way I grew up.”

_ “ _ Oh.” Cutter makes a rough little sound and now he's the one avoiding looking Charley in the eye. He knew all about that shit. Growin' up bad and feeling scared about things that shouldn't scare you all that much. He thought about that day he chucked the phone right out the window and over the edge – how fuckin' angry he had been. Hell raisin' furious, and gone to tell Charley his phone was broke. Not even thinkin' about nothin' but how he wanted to strangle his no-good brother with his own guts. Cutter didn't feel guilty, he felt fuckin' ashamed.

**“** Mister Spaulding?” Charley's soft voice and an even softer touch on his knee. Cutter startles slightly, looking back at the kid with eyes that were a lil' too wide, like he'd just been caught elbow deep in the cookie jar. What does Charley do? Gives him a fuckin' smile.

**“** I don't hold anything against you, Mister Spaulding. I didn't say anything and you didn't know. Please don't be upset.” Charley can't help but feel a touch of surprise at the change that comes over the man. The abrupt and total silence. There was no scoff or sarcastic eye roll. Instead Mr. Spaulding had stilled and looked away. It was strange, to say the least. Different in an unexpected way.

**“** I would ask. If it wouldn't be too much trouble.” Charley continues, speaking as if he's measuring every word by its weight. “That you keep your distance the next time you're upset about something. Just until you've calmed down again.”

Cutter doesn't respond right away, still stewing in his own shameful guilt. He knows he's intimidating, he's used to to get his way with it, bullying whatever it was he wanted into submission. But Charley was different, in what way he couldn't fuckin' say but he didn't want the kid fearin' for his damn life around him. Not like Charley ever did something to wrong him. Not yet, anyway.

Cutter shifts, adjusting in his seat, grunting and clearing his throat. Charley pulls away again, hands drawing back into his lap, thumb rubbing at his knuckles. Slower, now.

**“** Call me Cutter, kid.” Cutter rumbles, gruff. “Ain't no need for all that Mister Spauldin' shit.”

**“** Cutter.” Charley repeats and there's a smile again and Cutter finds him impossibly fuckin' soft. “Well, it's nice to meet you. You might want to pack, I left a few suitcases on your bed. The plane departs tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make Captain Spaulding insist you call him Cutter.


	6. Texas & The Cherry Red Corvette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a plane ride, Cutter learns something new and makes a face.

Few suitcases turned out to be a whole fuckin’ luggage set, not a box of black trash bags in sight. Cutter might’ve been mad if Charley (with a Y, he reminded himself with a snort) hadn’t shown him those plane tickets. Most of them were some kinda hard material, with a couple smaller soft ones in the mix. All of ‘em were a silvery greyish color. Cutter didn’t see the writing across the front of them ‘till he got closer - Captain Spaulding, they said in black letters. Like he was some rich fuck himself who dried his ass with embroidered towels. 

Couldn’t even be mad. Little  _ shit _ .

Cutter had stuffed all the clothes Charley had gotten for him into one suitcase, then filled another with most of the fancy shit from the bathroom. Soaps and towels, like he was robbin’ a ritzy hotel. In one of the soft ones he put his clown suit, a couple of the pretty gems Charley had given him in there. Things Baby and Momma would like. Bet he could twist that rich boy’s arm into stopping at a jeweler and having them set real quick in Dallas. Make the kid pay for it, none of that cheap silver shit that turned your skin green either. 

Done with all that, Cutter stuffed the rest of the empty cases under the bed and dumped the packed ones by the door. He went back to the living room when he was done to pick up his book on Nepal again - ‘course Charley was gone, probably wondering which pair of beige fuckin’ slacks he should pack and worrying over what gold dust infused sunscreen packaged by the virgins of Tumbuktu was best for Texas. It didn’t take long for Cutter to forget his absence, there was too much on his mind then. Seein’ his family and friends again, seein’ his dogs. He’d throw Charley off the fuckin’ balcony if this was all some sick and twisted joke. You didn’t twist a man’s feelings like that. Didn’t fuck around when it came to his goddamn kin.

The kid didn’t come out again, but a takeout appeared a little past eight, delivered by a bellboy. Cutter ate with gusto and left the boxes scattered across the table. Tried reading more and found it goddamn impossible. Thinkin’ about seeing everyone. Hoping Stucky hadn’t permanently fucked up the toilet or burned down his shop in his weeks of absence. Wondering if his dogs would still recognize his ugly mug or if they’d be afraid, till they heard his voice like they did when he called.

Cutter trudged off to bed, not thinking he would sleep. He did, without dreams, for the first time in a long time. 

Charley woke him at the ass crack of dawn, already bundled in those hideous clothes of his, clutching a thermos damn near bigger than he was and saying  _ “Mr. Spaulding?” _ over and over until Cutter finally snorted, grunted, and glared. Kid was in one of those goddamn moods again, fidgeting and looking everywhere but him again. Goddamnit. 

Charley had barely slept all night, he had kept waking up and looking at his clock, afraid to miss his alarm. He packed and repacked his suitcase. Put things out, took them out. He wondered if he should bring something for Cutter’s family, or if that would be rude. Was it cold at night in Texas? He was afraid to ask, to even type it into Google, as if Mr. Spaulding - Cutter - would check his search history at some point and catch that little gem. Dinner for his guest was the easiest part of his night, ordered quickly over the internet, no need to go out and use the phone. He set up a small away reply, in case there was no wifi in Ruggsville. He was proud of himself for only changing it three times.    
  
Charley was able to worry in peace after that, carry on his packing and unpacking and repacking until he made himself stop and go to bed. An hour before his alarm went off he shut it off and moved his luggage near the elevator door, creeping into Cutter’s room to do the same. He would never admit to it, but he lingered there, watching him out of the corner of his eye like he pretended to decide which suitcase to take first. Charley heard him snoring sometimes in the middle of the night, a sound reminiscent of a massive old diesel truck. It filled the room now, like the smell of him did. This was Mr. Spauldings -  _ Cutter’s _ \- space. Charley thought of it often (another thing he would never admit to), it made him think of sandalwood and fresh cut wood, and something darker, more primal, more feral. The classy thoroughbreds who leered at him on the streets never smelled like that. It was always cleaner, with them. More poised. Cutter smelled more...ancient. A man of lands that would have eaten someone like him alive. It fascinated him, and frightened him.

Charley took one deep and markedly silent breath before he gathered the suitcases, suffering under the weight of them as he shuffled them over to the rest. He came back to shut the door, as gently as one might defuse a bomb, and went to the kitchen to make a thermos of coffee.

  
  


“Time is it?” Cutter growled it out as he sat up, careful, expecting his back to raise hell. Course it raised a little, but not nearly as damn much as it did when he slept on the stained mattress in the back of his trailer where the springs poked at weird angles. 

“Um, just past six.” Charley replied, careful to raise his voice a little as he became seemingly fascinated with the baseboards. “I made coffee, for the road. There will be breakfast on the plane, and I moved the suitcases to the-”

“I got eyes, kid.” Cutter grunted roughly, going to the now-emptied stupid standing clothes cabinet shit to get his hot-dog t-shirt and battered old jeans out. When Charley had come scurryin’ in here and put them away Cutter didn’t know, but there they fuckin’ were, like magic. 

“Pardon?” Charley was still examining the baseboards in the doorway, as if they held the secrets of immortality. 

“Said I got fuckin’ eyes. You’re clutching that fuckin’ thermos like it’s your favorite fuckin’ dildo.”

Cutter might’ve appreciated the hard flush of red that climbed into Charley’s pale face, but he hardly heard the small “oh” the kid uttered before hurrying away. Cutter had a brief thought to shower as he pulled his shirt on, even going so far as to lift an arm and give his pits a sniff. Nah. If Charley-with-a-Y couldn’t handle a little night grunge that was his fuckin’ problem. Besides, he didn’t want to come around smelling like some rich asshole’s fancy ass soap. Might give Baby the wrong goddamn ideas.

Cutter made some effort to shove the suitcases into that stupid elevator of Charley’s, only because the kid didn’t seem to want to unclench his fingers from the damn coffee. Cutter took it from him - would’ve taken Charley’s fingers too if he didn’t give it up - and unscrewed the cap once that unsettling lurch in his stomach settled from the elevator going down. Smelled good and strong. Cutter remembered, bleary, of how much sugar Charley put in his coffee in the morning. Like the only thing keeping him alive was sugar and caffeine. He took a half-awake, suspicious slurp as they rode down. Not sweet. Straight black, smooth and strong and not too hot. Cutter tipped it back, sucking it down straight from the bottle with more noise than what was entirely necessary, backwashing a couple times even. When he was done he screwed the cap back on and shoved it back at Charley. The elevator dinged and there was a fuckin’ bellhop, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed as a cottontailed fuckin’ bunny. 

Cutter glared at him. Looking just as big and mean as a grizzly woken up too early from hibernation. Peter Cottontail’s smile faltered a bit, then stretched, as if tacked on to his face. Charley spoke up from somewhere near Cutter’s elbow.

“He’ll get the-”

“Get my own fuckin’ shit.” Cutter’s lips peeled back from his teeth as he grabbed his suitcases, grunting a warning stinking of morning breath and coffee at bunny-boy and his increasingly artificial smile and stomping past. The lobby was peaceful this time of morning and Cutter’s angry footsteps echoed in the corners like a coming thunderstorm. 

The car ride to the airport was dead silent, Cutter commandeering the thermos until it was empty. He was more awake, partially from the coffee, partially from a nervy excitement that started up a while back. A first class ticket to Dallas, and from Dallas, Ruggsville. Seein’ his family. There had to be some catch to it but Cutter hadn’t figured out what it was yet. He wasn’t stupid, and Charley sure as shit wasn’t the type who could lie but he was a man raised on a hearty diet of fuckin’ doubt. There was a growing pressure in his bladder too. The idea to pee in that fancy fuckin’ thermos and making the unhuman sonofabitch driving deal with it crossed his mind but they pulled up to the airport before he could muster the attention to wrangle his dick out in the back of the car to do it. 

Cutter climbed out before that stuck up robot could get his ass out of the driver’s seat to open the door for them. He was going around to the back of the car to grab his suitcases - wasn’t about to drag Charley-With-A-Y’s fuckin’ anywhere - when the kid touched his elbow. Cutter grunted, irritation showing his teeth and turning his eyes flat when he looked at him.

“They’ll take them. So they can be scanned and put on the plane.” Charley was looking up at him from that goddamn ugly cap of his, raising his voice just enough to be heard. “Please, Mr. Spaul- Cutter.” 

Cutter snorted out a sigh, considering shaking Charley off and doing whatever the fuck it was he wanted anyways, but he relented with a grunt, moving to the airport entrance with heavy strides.

“Fine. Gotta take a piss anyhow.”

The airport was fuckin’ enormous, biggest shit Cutter had ever seen. There’d been no planes when the pig shit cops dragged him off, it was all sweaty stinking busses with no AC and some asshole in the back farting like his life depended on it. Cutter followed the signs to the bathrooms - fuckin’ signs for everything around here. The pilot’s probably had a sign and a map just to wipe their own assholes after taking a shit. Cutter found what he was looking for easily enough, took the urinal in the middle and pissed like a racehorse. He regretted, just a bit, not pissin’ in the thermos. Maybe spilling it on that uptight shitbag driver.

Cutter gave his hands a cursory splash in the sink and shook his hands off, wiping them on his shirt when he turned around and barked, “ _ fuck! _ ”

Charley was standing over by the door, looking down at a black folder he was holding in a white knuckled grip. Cutter hadn’t noticed before, but Charley could’ve died between the car and here and Cutter wouldn’t’ve noticed either. Charley standing outside the door wouldn’t have surprised him, but hovering right fuckin’ there without even taking a piss was just goddamn unnatural. 

“If you’re so desperate to see a man take a piss buy a fuckin’ magazine.” 

“I don’t like airports very much.” Charley didn’t look up when he spoke but Cutter heard him just fine in the acoustics of the room. He opened his mouth with a retort but the frustrating little shit was already leaving. Cutter followed after him. Wasn’t so bad, following him this time, Cutter reasoned. Charley knew were the fuck they were going, they were less likely to miss their flight.

Past all the sad, tired poor fucks waiting in the long lines to be patted and groped by equally tired looking assholes in uniforms, past the walls of desks. Up a fuckin’ escalator, of all things. At the top was a smiling woman who reminded Cutter just a bit of Peter Cottontail, Bellhop. He watched as Charley slid the black folder across the counter to her, chin lifting, squaring those small shoulders of his. Sizing up for another fight, it seemed. Cutter hung back, watching.

The woman at the counter - Patricia, her name tag proclaimed - was gatekeeper of the lounge. The good lounge, where the rich and the famous rubbed elbows and ate tiny sandwiches cut into triangles while they boasted of their stock portfolios. Charley was more than aware of how they looked - him in his expensive, but decidedly hideous coat and cap, Cutter with his ragged jeans and vulgar hot-dog t-shirt. Patricia opened the folder as if it contained, perhaps, a raccoon with a decidedly bad case of rabies. Charley’s mouth firmed into a line as he watched. He had promised Cutter he would see his family, and he was not about to have that promise broken by some woman named Patricia, of all things.

But Patricia - smile never ceasing - stamped the papers within and scanned the tickets without complaint. She closed the folder again with two fingers, setting the tickets on top. 

“Have a nice flight, sir!” She proclaimed, cheer as artificial as a rubber banana. 

“Sirs.” Charley replied with an air suggesting that she had smeared snot on the tickets. He looked back at Cutter, eyes bright, steady.

“After you, Mr. Spaulding.” 

Charley wished he could have looked to see how Patricia’s face soured at that, but he followed a grinning Cutter this time into the land beyond the gatekeeper’s desk.

“We’re gate three.” Charley spoke up again once they were past the woman, “they’ll be boarding first class now.”

“Course they are. Can’t have the fuckin’ upper class rubbing elbows with regular folks.” Cutter snorted, Charley might have replied if he wasn’t practically running to keep up with Cutter’s long, quick strides. Gate Three came up sooner, rather than later. There was another gatekeeper here, a man this time, but all Charley had to do was brush past a looming Cutter, grinning like a demon, shove the tickets at him and not make eye contact. This time it was Cutter following Charley, down the narrow hall to the waiting entrance of the plane, flanked by smiling, pretty stewardesses. Cutter was awake now, the lumbering, angry stomp of a man who’d rather be sleeping had become a cocky swagger. Gloating in the fact that they couldn’t turn him away from their hoity-toity airplane. 

And it sure as shit wasn’t like any kind of airplane he’d ever seen. 

There were no narrow, cramped seats but instead luxurious recliners paired with polished tables, each adorned with a little selection of fuckin’ brochures. Leg room for fuckin’ days too! Last airplane Cutter had seen the inside of, outside a film, was the rattling bucket that hauled them off to war. Cutter stood, heavy hands on his hips as he surveyed the place like a king sizing up new lands and deciding just how to throw a party.

“Mr. Spaulding? We’re over here.” Charley was just a little ways off, near the middle, standing next to a pair of those fat cushioned seats. Cutter made his way over in his own damn time, thank you very much. Charley was still standing, too, rubbing the edge of that little black folder still in his hands.

“You waiting for permission to sit on your fuckin’ ass or something?”

“What? Oh, no.” Charley looked up a moment, then down again. Still fiddling with the folder. “I was just wondering if maybe you wanted the window seat.”

“Do I want the fuckin’ window seat.” Cutter snorted, “does a fish swim in the sea, kid?” 

Charley opened his mouth to reply but Cutter was already moving past him, dropping his weight down on the window seat with a grunt and stretching his legs out. Charley took his own, nearly disappearing into the plush brown leather. He leaned forward, tucking the folder away in one of them fancy little pockets they had. Charley then reached, taking one of those brochures off the table.

“What’s that?” Cutter asked, fiddling with the settings on his seat. Damn thing near reclined into a bed! A foot rest popped up, then down, then up again. Cutter chuckled to himself, a low heh heh heh in his throat. 

“A menu.” Charley offered it to Cutter as the man slowly lifted into view again. Cutter grunted, snatching it away. 

“Jesus H on a flamin’ fuckin’ pony. I know what a goddamn menu looks like. That fuckin’ folder you’ve clinging to like it’s the motherfuckin’ Declaration of Independence.” The writing on the folder was big enough for Cutter to read without his glasses. No microwaved trays of soggy beans and taters here, no sir, this was the lobster and caviar part of the goddamned plane. Shit on goddamn toast. 

“Just traveling papers.” Charley’s reply couldn’t have been any more vague if he explained it with charades. Cutter was about ready to lean right the hell on over and get the damn thing out of that fancy little airplane ass pocket when one of those peppy stewardesses came prancing over, all perky tiddies and sunshine smiles.

“Can I get you gentleman anything for breakfast? We won’t be serving until after the plane departs but we can take orders now.” 

  
“Departs. Fuckin’ departs! You hear that shit? Up here in the gold plated asshole section the plane doesn’t take off, no sir it _ de-parts _ .” Cutter cackled - maybe he shouldn’t have drank all that goddamn coffee but it was too late for pissing and moaning about it now. “Listen princess, I’ll have one of everything on that menu of yours and don’t even think about skipping on the gravy.”

“Uh huh.” The stewardesses smile looked frozen to her face, professional courtesy straining under the sudden bold slap that was Cutter. He had that effect on people, Charley had noticed. It was a kind of confidence he almost wished he had. “And to drink?”   
  
“I’ll take a, coffee. Whatever fancy fuckin’ juice you got. Some of that champagne. And a beer.” 

“Right.” The woman gave a little nod, turning her attention to Charley. He thought he could see a glimmer of fear in her eyes and couldn’t blame her for it. Cutter’s presence was dominating in the space.

“Bagel with cream cheese and an orange juice, please.” 

“I’ll have that right out as soon as we’ve departed.” And with that, she was gone. Cutter had lost interest in messing with his seat and was now messing with the curtains instead. Charley regretted not having the foresight to bring some books or something for the man. At least he wasn’t asking about the traveling papers anymore.

“Mr. Spaulding.” Charley smoothed the fabric of his pants, questing just how much he was going to regret what he was about to ask. Mr. Spaulding - Cutter, he reminded himself again - seemed in a good enough mood but that could change as quick as the weather over the sea. He waited for the  _ yuh? _ From the man, a sign that he had heard. 

“Do you.” Charley started, stopped, well aware of Cutter’s gaze resting on him now like a weight. He’d thought talking to the man would have gotten easier over time, but here he was, feeling as uncertain as ever about everything. It seemed every time they talked he either got flustered or angry, there was no golden middle to be had. Cutter was leaning in closer, wide eyed, Charley felt a rough flush climbing in his cheeks. He was helpless to stop it.

“Do you drive?” Charley asked, finally, looking up and then down again. Cutter’s mouth opened, slack jawed for a moment. 

“Do I fuckin’  _ drive? _ ” Cutter breathed, Charley seemed to be trying to vanish either into his coat or his seat or both, his ears burning red. “Do I look like some kinda fuckin’ howdy-doody ass backwards motherfucker who can’t steer a hunk of American steel down the goddamn highway?”

“No, I - I-”   
  


“Well there’s your fuckin’ answer ain’t it! Can I fuckin’ drive. Merry fuckin’ hell.” Cutter snorted, thumping back in his seat and kicking his legs out. 

“I can’t drive. That’s why I asked.” Charley’s little squeak was so damn low Cutter’s old war-abused ears nearly didn’t catch it. Cutter looked at him, slow, eyes bugging out again. 

“Bullshit.” Cutter breathed out.

“No. No it’s not. I.” Charley straightened himself, forcing himself to do it. He cleared his throat, hands in his lap again. Those fine boned hands, twisting and moving together. “It’s illegal. For people like me.”

“Illegal.” Cutter parroted back, like Charley suddenly started speaking French or something. The stewardess was going through some dog and pony show of putting on seat belts and using the person next to you as a floatation device. “Shit fire kid, if I spent all my time worrying about what was legal and  _ ill-e-gal _ I’d be a fuckin’ tax fixer. It’s a goddamn given right to drive a fuckin’ car!”

Charley wanted to retort that it was, after all, taxes that had gotten Cutter to where he was now, but he didn’t. He fiddled with his seatbelt instead, buckling it. Hoping Cutter would lose interest, or change the subject to something else. As expected, the man did neither.

“What is it, they think you gotta fake ID with that baby face of yours? Won’t ya let the fuckin’ test?” 

“I don’t have a baby face. Put your seatbelt on, please. They’re going to take off soon.” 

To Cutter’s credit he did put the ‘stupid fuckin’ bullshit whore’s ass belt’ on, and did it proper, didn’t just tie it around his waist in a way that would no doubt make the stewardess quit her job right then and there. 

“You do gotta baby face, kid. Clear as fuckin’ day! Don’t know what kinda mirror you’ve been lookin’ in that you don’t see that.” 

“I.” Charley stopped, took a deep breath. Cutter was doing that thing again, like he did at the breakfast table. Egging him into irritation. Cutter has his elbow on the arm rest, fist propped up against his cheek, grinning away. He’d almost be charming if he wasn’t getting on Charley’s nerves again. Charley began to regret not mixing half that thermos with decaf to cut just how much Cutter felt it. The plane was rising, taking off into the skies. It would level out soon and surely the staff would shut Cutter up with food. Charley was acutely aware that some of the other people in first class - high powered CEOs, businessmen with portfolios that weighed more than him - were staring. Charley did his best to ignore it and the anxious, nervous feeling beginning to weigh in his gut and chest. The way his heart began to beat faster.

“I can’t take the driver’s test because men like me are not considered mentally fit enough to be trusted with a car. I explained this to you, Mr. Spaulding.” Charley’s voice was low, brow furrowed. Cutter was still grinning away like a lunatic who’d discovered all the candy in the shop. Charley felt a slight, all-to feral urge to bite him. He fished a small bottle out of his pocket, unscrewing the cap and shaking a small blue pill out into his palm. Cutter’s interest - more than irritating the bullshit out of Charley - piqued, he leaned closer.

“What’s that now? Didn’t tell me you brought happy fuckin’ candy.” Cutter chuffed, damn near close enough to kiss the kid if he wanted. Charley’s shoulders hunched as he put the pill under his tongue, looking up at Cutter with those damnable blue eyes. Cutter could see an anxious fear in them. There was maybe some small part of him that wanted to feel the slightest bit guilty for it, but then again Charley was afraid of fuckin’ everything. 

“It’s Valium. I don’t like flying.” Charley mumbled in return, Cutter’s smell - heady, deep, dark, warm, dangerous - was soothing and unnerving at all once. He turned Cutter’s hand - just pulling on those heavy, rough fingers just enough to do it - and pressed the bottle there as the pill under his tongue dissolved, chalky and not terribly unpleasant. It would calm him. 

“Well bend over and call my ass daddy!” Cutter proclaimed, working the cap off and shaking three of those little blue delights out into his hand. Didn’t know what kinda dosage Charley was on but given how twitchy he was it was probably a damn fuckin’ good one. Cutter popped them in his mouth, crunching them like sweet tarts as the first cart full of food came their way. 

Cutter was halfway sure he’d gained a coupl’a pounds since Charley picked him up, dirty and pissed off, from that fuckin’ auction. He’d have to do something about it, drag Charley outta the apartment by his goddamn ears if he had to. He was a husky man before, there was no need to not be fitting in his clown suits all because of the nervous nelly now picking at a bagel beside him.

Cutter’s thoughts wandered as he was served a dizzying array of food. Charley was quiet beside him, eventually picking his bagel to death and finishing off his orange juice. They landed not long after Cutter polished off a damn good slice of cheesecake, sitting back with a burp and enjoying the food and drug induced relaxation that followed. Half a damn shame the trip wasn’t longer, he would’ve taken a nap. 

Instead there was shit to do, like pulling the soft case with his clown suit and pretty stones out of a tidy little overhead compartment and getting off the metal death trap. Charley was holding that folder again, although in less of a death grip. Cutter barely noticed the fine-boned hand near his elbow, occasionally coaxing him in another direction and he ambled through the Dallas airport to the baggage claim. Charley showed his big amused ass that the hard suitcases had wheels and they made a merry voyage through the crowds to the hub proclaiming car rentals. All shapes an’ fuckin’ sizes according to the advertisments. 

Charley stopped a few feet from the counter, Cutter might’ve not noticed if it hadn’t been for an obnoxious little tugging at his elbow. He pulled his arm away with an irritated glare, beginning to regret eating half his weight in airplane food, valium or not. Charley was frowning, looking at the rental counter like the clerk might jump across it and bite his throat out. Cutter wouldn’t have minded if he did.

“The fuck is your damage now?” Cutter growled. They weren’t far from Ruggsville - seven fuckin’ hours, sure, but that wasn’t half bad. Could be there by evening, if stoppin’ by a jeweler didn’t take a goddamn eternity and they got their asses going. 

“I’ve never rented a car before.” Charley’s soft answer made Cutter snort, rolling his eyes. 

“Never rented a fuckin’ - how are you even fuckin’ alive? Jesus H Rollin’ Christ on a jumped up fuckin’ pony, c’mon now, get your tiny ass over there.” Cutter was behind Charley now, herding him with bumps from his dad belly, dragging suitcases along behind them. “Go on now or you’re gonna be walking!”

Charley damn near tried resisting, all of him was insisting all at once that this was, somehow, a really bad idea but when it came down to moving forward or face planting on the floor, he took the former. Charley scurried forward, driven by Cutter until he was nearly pressed against the edge of the long counter. 

“I’d. I’d like to. Um.” Charley started, stopped, stammered. The clerk seemed nice enough, more or less like he’d seen too much shit for anything to surprise him anymore.

“Rent.” Cutter’s voice sounded behind him, close enough to reverberate in his chest.

“Rent a- a um…”

“Convertible Corvette.” Cutter prompted. Looking at those adverts, he had just the car in mind.

“Convertible Corvette.” Charley echoed, fighting against the temptation to press back against the big grouchy alpha behind him. Cutter felt dangerous, but he also felt safe.

“Cherry red.” 

“Cherry red.” Charley hoped that’d be the end of it. He’d pay, they’d get the keys and be on their way. 

But it wasn’t, because then came paperwork and the need for a valid driver’s license - Charley looked to Cutter for that one, mentioning quietly that his wallet was in his pocket, watching that big, rough callused paw slap it down on the counter. It wasn’t too bad, though, despite Cutter muttering curses under his breath, the clerk didn’t stare too much. They had their keys and their papers quick enough, and the number of the parking spot where they needed to go. It was Charley following Cutter again then, hurrying after the man and his long, heavy strides.

“It’s hotter than I thought it’d be.”

Cutter looked over his shoulder as he finished stuffing the luggage into the trunk of one _ damn  _ fine Corvette and sure enough Charley looked well on his way to a heat stroke, bundled up like he was goin’ to Alaska. He rubbed a hand over his face with a hard sigh, wondering again just how he got into this shit.

“Take that shit off.” Cutter grunted, pulling the lid of the trunk down to slam it shut. 

“But-” Charley started protesting, not that fierce way Cutter seen him do but it was weak, like he wasn’t really sure he should be. Cutter’s face darkened, eyes narrowing as he loomed over the small man. He caught just the faintest whiff of bitter almonds.

“Listen here you jackassey little shit, I sure as fuck didn’t stutter. Take that shit off or you’re walking that uptight ass and the stick you got stuck up it all the way to fuckin’ Ruggsville. I’m not wasting anymore time bitchin’ with you about this shit.” Low and dark and dangerous and all Charley could do was look up and nod, pulling off his cap with trembling fingers, his thick coat following.    
  


“Son of a motherfuckin’...” Cutter heaved a sigh, the sudden influx of smells - those soft, warm smells, offset slightly by the sharper tones of Charley’s fear - calmed his temper a few notches, even at the sight of the fuckin’ sweater the kid was wearing. A fuckin’ sweater in fuckin’ Texas, no wonder Jesus wept. But Charley was taking it off, thank goddamned Christ or Cutter would’ve ripped it off him, and then he was standing there in his damp t-shirt, smelling like a whole goddamn lot with a bundle of clothes damn near bigger than him in his arms.

“Toss it in the back and let’s get fuckin’ going.” Cutter muttered, doing his best to stomp around to the driver’s side and failing at it just a little. He popped open the door, a wave of heat hot enough to bake a batch of cookies in blasting out. Cutter leaned in with a grumble, shoving the keys in the ignition and stabbing the button that pulled the soft top down. 

Charley was in damn near quicker than he was, pulling on his seatbelt as Cutter prided himself in having the sense to make sure it was a convertible. Even with all the windows down and the AC blasting the kid would’ve hotboxed a bus of a Rolls Royce. Cutter wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, flexing his fingers, giving the big motor under the hood a little rev. 

“Need a jeweler.” Cutter pulled out of the space headed towards the parking lot exit, Charley seemed occupied with stuffing things in the glovebox. Cutter focused on the road, not thinking much of the kid, especially not thinking of those fuckin’ furs in his bedroom no sir. 

“There’s a good one on Parkway.” Charley piped up, almost immediately, Cutter raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve shipped stones there before.” A soft pink flush rose in the kid’s cheeks as he looked away, Cutter focused on the road, goddamnit. He focused like no man’s ever focused on a road before, cursing every red light and minor traffic jam as Charley gave directions from a Dallas map tucked into the side panel of the door. His grip on the wheel was near white-knuckled by the time they parked. Who’d’ve fuckin’ thought that it’d get worse when the kid started to sweat?

“Come on kid, I want to be in Ruggsville before the crack of fuckin’ dawn!” There was a forced jovillity to Cutter’s voice, nearly strained. Charley got out of the car, thank the damned christ because if he hadn’t, Cutter was sure his temper would have snapped right then. 

And goddamn if his temper didn’t just about snap for a moment when the gems didn’t turn up straight away in the silk of his clown suit but there they were, sparkling in the midday Texas sun. Cutter heaved a sigh of relief and tucked them into his pocket, shutting the trunk and finding himself only halfway surprised to see Charley loitering not a foot away again. 

“May I? Please?” Not even given him a chance to respond, Charley closed the distance, hands curling around one of Cutter’s thick, hairy forearms. 

Cutter stared down at him, unblinking. The memory came back, slow. Talking with Charley on the couch, just a day ago! Said he wouldn’t leave him to fend for himself outside, damn near promised he’d keep him safe. His head was a goddamn mess, even he could admit that. The valium wearing off, that edgy excitement that came with seeing his family again, not just talking over the phone. Cutter gave a nod, this time.

“Al’right.” None of that forced cheer, just a bit low, a bit warm, and Charley gave him one of those warm sunrise smiles again. 

The jeweler was less of a headache than Cutter expected, even with Charley damn near glued to the side of him. It didn’t mean nothin’, he was just keeping the kid safe was all, even when Charley got that Fuck-You-And-The-Horse-You-Rode-In-On look on his face when they tried to talk Cutter into shit he didn’t want, fuckin’ name dropped and everything, the little bastard. Looking up at Cutter -  _ we expect nothing but the best, don’t we Mr. Spaulding? _ \- with an expression that suggested he might bite him if he disagreed. Cutter wouldn’t’ve believed this was the same kid that could barely hold a goddamn conversation he was so fuckin’ nervous all the time if he hadn’t dealt with that shit every day for christ-knows how long. Charley had a fire in him, why it didn’t burn all the time Cutter sure as shit couldn’t figure.

In the end he came away with some pretty fine ass gift boxes, priority work and overnight shipping. Everything went right, Baby would have her bracelet and Momma her necklace by mid-week. Charley was going shy again by the time they got to the car for the final seven hour drive. Cutter managed to get the kid arguing about the music on the radio a coupl’a times, but other than that Charley was either quiet watching the scenery, or sleeping. 

Cutter found he didn’t mind it as much as he maybe should’ve. He was going to see his family soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every kudo makes Cutter just a little less scary.


	7. Texas Part 2: Momma's Always Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momma offers a helping word, Cutter listens, couple of fools get baked and talk about a dark side of society.

Cutter woke up before Charley, this time. The dreams came back to haunt but the screams stayed in, this time. He fixed his clown face and pulled on everything else, for some reason doing his best to stay quiet as he went down the hall. He looked in on Charley when he went by, holding his breath as he did it - he was still sleeping deep, snuggled under that weird blanket of his. Cutter couldn’t tell if he was wearing that Captain Spaulding t-shirt still. He wasn’t going to wake him up to find out. 

While his morning coffee brewed he hunted up the notepad and pen he kept laying around, for commercial ideas, mostly. Wouldn’t be any need for those for a damn long while. He tore off a sheet, hunching over it to write - purposefully fisting the pen and scrawling it out in big blocky capitals. Charley wouldn’t miss it. 

**CHARLEY. FINISH CLEANING IF YOU WANT. DON’T GO NOWHERE. PAY PHONE NUMBER 841-5555. CALL IF EMERGENCY. ** Cutter paused, then added.  **BOOKS IN MY CLOSET. CUTTER.**

There. Cutter suspected that would be enough to keep the kid occupied for the day. He’d chain him to the fuckin’ couch if it didn’t. Walkin’ off to the damn store, jesus christ, almost like he was askin’ to get killed. Probably did it in that ugly ass coat of his too, all bundled up and sweating buckets. Charley was lucky he didn’t run adrift with the damn Bollard boys. Or Otis, that fuckin’ squirrely bastard. 

Time at the Museum ala Gas Station gave Cutter time to think. Maybe cleanin’ his place would keep the lil’ shit occupied, keep him from wanderin’ off and doing god knows what. Cutter sat on his stool behind his counter, arms folded on top, glaring at a whole lot of nothing. He’d yelled at the kid, damn near scared the jimmies outta him and what the little shit do? Cleans the house, makes dinner and bakes a goddamn apple pie. A damn  _ good _ apple pie. Nothing like that shit that came outta a box. Cutter grumbled, scratching at his beard, questioning if he regret giving Charley permission to go into his room. 

“Oh now, I know that look.” 

Cutter grunted, startled, looking up. There was Momma, smiling, primped up in a light dress foaming with pink feathers. Cutter straightened up, clearing his throat.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Mhm. I bet you wish you didn’t.” Momma swept in, always the matriarch. When she spoke, you obeyed, so help you if you didn’t. Her tongue was sharpened on both sides and she knew how to wield it. She might’ve been a Beta, but she’d made any Alpha shake in his boots. “Give me some chicken and tell me what’s on your mind, sugar. I know you haven’t told Baby or Stucky nothing.” 

Cutter frowned a bit, pulling a bag of fried chicken from the counter and passing it over. No, he hadn’t told either of them nothing. Hadn’t told nobody nothing. Not like he was keepin’ any secrets - but Cutter hadn’t wanted to tell them all the same. He didn’t know quite why that was. Momma was picking a leg out of the bag, biting into the meat, patient as ever.

“Well.” Cutter started, stopped. “I don’t very well know.”

Momma said nothing, turning the leg over in her fingers, taking another bite. Patient as a damn saint, she was. Cutter almost wished he had her patience. 

“He cleaned my goddamn house. And he made dinner! Walked to the fuckin’ store and everything.” Cutter said, and when he started speaking it didn’t stop coming. “Made a fuckin’ apple pie. Kid’s as nervous as a fuckin’ wild colt and he goes strollin’ off here for fuckin’ groceries! Hardly says a goddamn word to me and does shit like this!”

“Like what?” Momma prompted, leaning over to drop her chicken bone in the little trash can decorated with bones Cutter kept by his desk. One thing he kept tidy. 

“Well - fuckin’ Ruggsville, for starts.” Cutter grumbled, reaching to dip his hand in the bag and retracting it twice as quick when Momma smacked his fingers. “Had one of those dreams.”

Momma only raised an eyebrow, waiting for Cutter to continue. If there was anything she knew, it was best to let the man talk at his own pace. You tried to push him and he’d dig his heels in and not budge an inch.

“Kid comes...comes burstin’ in with a frying pan, of all things. Thought I was gettin’ attacked. Damn near throttled him.” Cutter was near mumbling, same shit that bothered the fuck outta him when Charley did it. “Mean you’ve seen him, couldn’t fight off a squirt gun and then he goes an’...well.”

Momma reached across the counter, resting a cool hand on Cutter’s heavy one. Now Cutter was the one not lookin’ nobody in the eye, fighting that heavy feeling in his chest again.

“You know darling, there’s a whole lot of ways to say thank you.” Momma’s voice was gentle, and Cutter was hugging her a second after that. They stayed like that for a long time. 

  
  


Cutter mulled it later, heading home. Tomorrow was Sunday, and Sunday meant Captain Spaulding’s would be closed up. There wasn’t much to do in Ruggsville on Sunday, ‘cept fuck and pick your ass, but breakfast at the diner wasn’t half bad. Kid had been cookin’ for him for weeks now, the least Cutter could do is show him just a little southern hospitality that didn’t involve scaring the shit outta him. 

Sure enough when Cutter opened the door - waiting on Mucus and Chica to go careening in first - there was the warm smell of somethin’ tasty on the stove for dinner. Hell there was even music going, from a record player in the corner. Cutter hadn’t seen that damn thing in years. Kid must’ve figured out the note and kept himself busy. 

Cutter plodded over to the player, there was a crick in his back and his feet ached the bastard. Wrapped up in his thoughts, watching that record go ‘round and ‘round as the needle road the grooves. Johnny Cash was crooning out of an old fashioned horn, singing about Folsom Prison. Jesus fuckin’ christ.

“Long day?” 

Cutter grunted, straightening up just a little too fast and making his back cramp up like a whore. That sweet little smile on Charley’s face turned to a frown of concern. 

“Are you okay? Do you need a hot water bottle?” 

“What I need is for you to not be up my goddamn ass like a fuckin’ nervous hen.” Cutter snapped but Charley didn’t seem none too bothered. God help him if the kid was actually getting used to him. What a fuckin’ nightmare that’d turn out to be.

“Hot shower’ll fix it.” Cutter muttered, slouching off in his clown shoes to his room. 

Place turned out to be a goddamn helluva lot cleaner than he somehow expected. Bed was made, even had sheets on it. Cutter couldn’t hardly remember the last time there were sheets on that shitty old thing. Could walk from one side of the room to the other without tripping over shit. Hell, even the little slice of mirror in between the titties and ass was clean. Kid probably did that shit blindfolded. Cutter chuckled to himself at the thought, mood improving just a bit. Hot shower would help more. Get the damn knots out of his back some. 

When Cutter emerged - dressed in ragged old clothes, clean ragged old clothes, fuckin’ christ - there was bowls of some kinda stew on the table. Turned out rather fine, especially once he dashed some Tabasco on it, even known it’d play hell with his stomach. Pie followed and Charley even managed to work the damn coffee maker long enough to pour a couple fresh cups. It should’ve been relaxing - but it wasn’t. His mind kept dragging back, Charley changing clothes. His shirt off, those scars on his back.

“You ever smoke weed, kid?” It was out of Cutter’s mouth before he could stop it. 

“No, why?” Course he hadn’t. Should’ve known.

“Meet me around back. Couple chairs back there. Dogs’ll follow you.” 

Charley nodded, calling softly for the pups before heading out into the cool night air. Cutter waited till he was gone to pull the can off the shelf from behind a clown doll; Charley seemed to have dusted it but it was right where he left it. Cutter pulled a fat blunt out of the tightly sealed baggy in there along with a book of matches. 

Charley was sitting out there, sure enough. Cutter could see his slim shape, just illuminated by the light slanting out of the kitchen window. Chica and Mucus were rustling out just beyond, probably pissin’ on the brush grass. Cutter trudged out, settling just a little careful on the old lawn chair next to Charley’s. He could feel the kid’s eyes on him, watching, as he struck a match and chased the end of the blunt. 

The effect was immediate, heady, the smell rich and herbal. Cutter sucked in a lungful, letting it out slow before offering it to Charley. The kid pinched the end between two fingers, like it might grow teeth and bite.

“Little sips, or you’ll be coughing your ass off. Try and hold it in.” Charley nodded, doing as he was told. Little sips. Holding it in. 

“Oh.” Charley exhaled and Cutter almost wished he could see the kid’s face. He took the blunt back, taking a longer drag. 

“Yeah.” Cutter felt it settling over him like a warm blanket, he sank deeper into his chair, making it creak. “Good shit, this is, not that ditch weed crap some asshole’s will sell ya.”

“I’ve never tried to buy drugs before.” Charley sounded almost surprised with himself, Cutter snorted, taking another drag before passing back.

“Course you haven’t.” There was no venom in Cutter’s voice. Damn amazing what a couple months without tokin’ the ol’ devil grass could do to a man. 

“How’s your family?” Charley’s voice ended with a squeak and Cutter looked over as the kid coughed out a cloud of smoke, passing the blunt back. Holding it still between his thumb and forefinger. All he needed was a pinky sticking up. Cutter giggled, reaching over to take it. 

“Oh, they’re doing alright without me.” Should’ve been depressing, but he was too goddamn high now to feel it. Cutter realised he didn’t grab a couple of beers on the way out, except now he didn’t feel like moving a damn inch. 

“Oh?” A pause from Charley, Cutter didn’t mind. Hell, he didn’t mind much of anything right now. “I don’t think your daughter likes me very much.”

“Baby? Nah she doesn’t like much of anyone very much. That’s kids. Got minds of their own.”

“I don’t have any kids.” Charley’s matter-of-fact tone got them both giggling this time, just heh-heh-hehing like a couple of fools. Passing the blunt back and forth. Cutter felt a lot like he was floating. It was a good feeling to have. 

“Nah, guess you don’t.” Cutter said finally when the giggle fit tapered off. The thought of what he saw felt detached, held under a cloud. He was fuckin’ baked, shit. 

“How’d your family?” Cutter asked, abrupt. He wouldn’t have asked any other time.

“They’re...fine I guess.” Charley shifted, tucking his legs up in his chair in a way that would have had Cutter in traction if he had tried. “My mother sends cards. Birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. My brother visits a couple times a year.”

“Does he?” Cutter prompted, not really knowing why. Trying to figure out how hard it’d be to wring that so-called brother’s neck, maybe. 

“Mhm. Him and his husband. His husband is nice...my brother, well.”

“Big ol’ asshole?”

“Yeah.” Another one of those silences, the two of them just looking out into the night. It was clear, Cutter looked up, picking out constellations in the sky. He passed the blunt back to Charley, taking one last toke himself before crushing out the stub. Well and wholly baked, the both of them. He wouldn’t have minded staying like this for a while. Soaking up the peace. But Charley started talking again, and Cutter found himself listening.

“My father said I’d never amount to anything. Never be anything more than a rabbit, a whore, like the rest of them.” Cutter didn’t interrupt, the fantasy of snapping the bones of Charley’s pa ‘till he fit into a suitcase sure was a fine one, though. Then chaining that suitcase shut and stuffing it down an outhouse shithole.

“It was my mother who helped me get out. Forged his signature on the paperwork I needed to get to Nepal, when I was seventeen. Would have been impossible otherwise.”

Cutter nodded, picking out Cassiopia and the Dippers out of the sky. “Never heard of a rabbit. That some kinda fancy asshole term for a prostitute?” 

“It’s...yes and no…” Any other time Cutter would’ve felt immediate irritation at the kid for being vague. “You know, well of course you do. I bought your time, because they said you did something wrong, right?”

“Yeah.” Cutter took his eyes off the stars, looking over at Charley with a squint.

“Well. Even if you haven’t done something wrong...you can sell your time. It’s not really legal, but it’s not really illegal either. They frame it as a contract. A contract for an hour of your time, or for your lifetime.”

“Folks do this shit on  _ purpose? _ Like they  _ ask _ for it?”

“Yeah.” Charley nodded, slow. “Sometimes they do. Part of the price goes to the auction house, the rest goes to you, when your contract is up. If you sell your whole life...it goes to your next of kin, when you die. Like life insurance. I asked about yours, it all went to the state.”

“Course it did. Fuckin’ slave tradin’, thieiving cunts.”

“Rabbits. They.” Charley started slow. He reached out, hand resting on Cutter’s heavy forearm. Cutter let him. 

“They’re like me. Boys like me.” Charley was tracing random designs with his fingertips. Slow. “And we’re graded. Best are virgins. Never touched or...marked up. They always sell for the most. Then it goes down from there. The price. Based on...you know, things.”

Cutter looked down at that hand on his arm, so pale against the tan of his skin. Listening, wishing he wasn’t.

“It’s not legal, chasing rabbits. But nobody says anything. They all do it. Those high bred assholes. They buy one, and if it’s a really good one there’s usually three. Alpha men, I mean. The lower...lower grade boys, there might be a dozen. The rabbit that got bought gets sent to a ranch. Usually they um. They artificially induce a heat cycle. Then they put him in a big fenced pen.” Charley’s fingers were kneading lightly at his skin, tracing the lines of a tattoo. “So he can’t escape.”

Cutter felt sick, but he was still listening. Listening to the kid talk about fuckin’ horrors. Could he really say boo, though? The shit that went on out at the farm. Fuckin’ christ.

“When he’s - when the rabbit is ready. The alphas go and they. They chase him. They run him down and then.” Charley took a deep breath and let it out slow. “The first one that catches him...he gets the prize. Then the rest.”

Cutter was fixated on those fine fingers on his arm. He wanted Charley to stop talking, but he couldn’t speak himself. He felt frozen in time.

“My father made me watch one, once. One of those hunts. Forced me.” There was a faint waver in Charley’s voice, Cutter was too high for this shit. Too fuckin’ high.

“After he beat me. Wasn’t the first time. But after he told me he wanted to make sure I didn’t sell for as much. My mother helped me get away...after that.”

“Fuck-” There was a lump in Cutter’s throat that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was. He couldn’t tell. He wanted to leave, get away from all this. Get away from everything Charley just fuckin’ dumped on him like that. Why’d he have to ask? What a dumb fuckin’ thing to do. He wanted to go, go anywhere that wasn’t here, but he couldn’t. This was his own damn doing. His own can full of rotten worms.

“Just. Shit. C’mere, kid. Come on.”

Charley was heavier than he looked, all unsteady in his lap and his full damn belly. Cutter settled his arms around Charley anyways, looking up at the stars again. There was almost a desperation to it as he found those constellations in the sky again. 

“None of that shit’s ever gonna happen, you hear me? It’s never fuckin’ happening.”

“I know.” Charley’s head was resting on Cutter’s chest, listening to his heart beat. “I trust you.”

Cutter hugged him a little tighter. Goddamned spoiled ass rich fuckin’ kid. Could snap the little shit like a twig and here they were, cuddling under the stars in a lawn chair Cutter already didn’t trust under his weight. Cutter tried to tell himself he’d shove the kid off if he tried staying any longer.

“Cutter?"   


“Yeah, kid?”

“I wish I’d met you earlier. Under different circumstances.”

“What, sorry about missing out on starin’ at my fat ass?” Cutter chuckled, telling him he’d push the kid off in a minute. Just another minute, that was all.

“No, but.” Cutter could feel Charley’s voice vibrating slightly in his chest. “I told you I was lonely, and that was true. But I also. Well, before I started going to those places, I thought if I can manage to live with someone for a year, then I can manage making more friends. Ones that aren’t...stuck with me.”

“Stuck with you? Yeah, that’s the real punishment right there. Makes Alcatraz seem like a bed and breakfast.”

“I’m not  _ that _ bad.” Charley gave Cutter’s arm a half hearted swat, nearly missing the man entirely and they were both giggling again. Sounding like a couple of loonies out there in the dark. Cutter’d think he was done, then Charley’d snort and he’d be off on another  _ hee hee hee  _ and it was off in circles all over again.

There was another one of those peaceful silences once they got themselves under control again. Cutter was half sure his legs were gonna be numb as shit when he finally got the kid off his lap. 

“I mean it, Cutter.” Charley spoke up again. He sounded tired. Not that worn out, deep down exhausted Cutter knew all too well himself but more. Sleepy. Relaxed. Something he wasn’t near as familiar with. Cutter didn’t interrupt, letting the kid talk as he watched the stars. 

“I wish I’d met you earlier. Wish I haven’t been so...frightened and selfish. Wasn’t kind to you, hardly talking like I’ve been.”

“Yeah?” Cutter felt that weight again, heavy in his chest. “Well kid, I hate to break it to ya, but there ain’t no pretty rocks in Ruggsville, Texas. Doubt ya would’ve met me without The Man stepping in like he did.”

“No, but there’s fried chicken and gasoline in Ruggsville, Texas.”

That little quip got them both goin’ off again like a couple of lunatics and at the end Cutter insisted they get off to bed before they froze out here in the desert night. Chica and Mucus who had stayed near at least kept out from under foot, but Charley discovered walking more than two paces went stoned off his ass was a whole hell of a lot harder than Cutter made it out to be. But they made it all the same, collapsing into their respective beds for what remained of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Every kudo makes Cutter say 'fudge' instead of 'fuck'.


End file.
